


The Roles We Play

by LetaDarnell



Category: Marvel 616
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-19
Updated: 2017-02-26
Packaged: 2018-07-16 01:18:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 37,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7246417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LetaDarnell/pseuds/LetaDarnell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Micheal Morbius returns to Horizon and Spider-Man isn't too happy about a restraining order in order to keep Morby safe.  Well, if Spider-Man can't do anything, maybe Peter Parker can.</p><p>Or maybe it'll all lead to yet another disaster.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Suibotrom/Duskodesh](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Suibotrom%2FDuskodesh).



“That one.”  
Admittedly, she was the perfect target. Pretty, high heels, tight clothes impossible to run in, distracted by her phone, and not a known superheroine.  
“Sure, fifth time's a charm,” Cable said, grumbling as he adjusted his eyebatch. Deadpool had better have a good way to pay him back. Then again, he was bored and had nothing else to do but macke sure Deadpool didn't hire someone a lot sketchier for this.  
“Hey lady!” he yelled, grabbing her. “Ah, screw this. Hold still, I'm gonna stab you after I drag you into this alley.”  
He yanked he into the dark alley and pulled out a knife.  
He tended not to like knives, he he liked this one. Exaggerated serrations on the useless side, too wide for it's intended use, and it came with a ciggarette lighter, a cigar cutter, and some curled sharp tool no one could tell him what it was. The handle was meant to also serve as an earbud holder. It was over the top, had badass yet pointless gadgets, and was too big. He liked his knives that way. He liked everything that way. He liked himself that way.  
This time it worked. This time someone tried to stop him. A body slammed into him and needle-like teeth shot into the skin of his neck just before his asailant shouted at the girl to run.  
“Hey!” Cable yelled and punched his attacker on instinct.  
The woman stood there, dumbfounded, no longer able to concentrate on pulling the mace out of her purse. The man who had grabbed him had just been attacked by a vampire! The creature hissed, his grotesque face pure white with black surrounding his red eyes like the mask of a raccoon. His nose was oddly shaped; she would have recognized it as that of a vampire bat were she not so ignorant of their appearance.  
The edge of a flattened hand slammed on the vaapire's back, just below the neck. “No, dude, you do it like that. I told you,” Deadpool said, strolling out of the shadows of the alleyway. “Weird. I thought for sure he'd go for the trashcans.”  
“You know I'm not good at this non-lethal damage stuff. I'm not sued to it,” Cable complained. “Is he dead?”  
“Nah,” Deadpool said, picking up the unconscious vampire. “He's blown himself up and come back. I hope no one asks about that black eye.”  
“Excuse me...?” he woman asked, hoping the two men ignoring her was a good thing.  
“Oh, right you. We're filiming a reaction shots of heroes for youtube. You were never in danger and we don't need you anymore. Thanks for being scared though,” Deadpool said.  
“Uh, thanks,” she replied. “ I hope you go viral, I guess.”  
“I can't believe she bought that,” Cable commented after the woman had walked off.  
“I can't believe she's the fifth person to buy it,” Deadpool said.  
“Are you sure this isn't one of those jobs that look like you're bing a good guy, but the client is actually an obvious villain? I hear you havne't had a great track record with that.”  
“Don't worry. I checked this one out. Totally good guy material. Besides, this is Michael Morbius. Nothing big ever happens involving him.”

* * *

Michael woke slowly and groggily. It had been a while since he had woken up from a fight. He had spent the last few years trying to hide from potential brawls or being involved in the quarrels of others. The exception has ben the occaisional street fight where no one bothered to care about fighters who weren't famous and where the losers were picked up and given a sip of old scotch anyway.  
This was new. He had woken up in custody of someone else, both legally and illegally before. He had been tied up, held down, and subject to a number of ways to retrain him. His entire forearms were held in metal tubes that closed over his hands. They were meant for much stronger opponents and were originally designed for The Hulk. He was strapped into a chair of a helicopter with several soldiers aiming their weapons at him. No one them wanted anythig to do with him. The feeling was mutual.  
The experience reminded him of this short time on The Raft before he decided a life as a himelss fugitive had more advantages than serving a prison sentence inside of what might as well be barely adequately sized tupperware.  
Occasionally, the guards liked to bang on the clear plastic walls to annoy prisoners. Once, he had gotten into trouble for trying to talk to the janitor. He used to get into trouble on purpose, getting himself sent to the medical ward, creating a distraction, and disappearing for hours only to be found in a supply closet or air duct with stolen medical journals and his injury having healed so poorly he was sent back to the medical ward. He was surprised no one tossed him overboard to stop his antics.  
No one ever wanted to be near a vampire. Or a close approximation. Once upon a time, he was engaged to a woman he considered the most beautiful in the world. Two days later, he gave himself less than a month to live after thanks to contracting a rare and barely researched blood condition. He was the expert in hematology at the time and the few who could understand his work couldn't refute him. Once upon a time, he was desperate to give the woman he loved the wedding she had dreamed about since she was a little girl before he died. Once upon a time, he screwed up badly.  
So long as his appetite was quenched, all he wanted were his books or his work. No one else saw things that way. No one who mattered. No one who mattered who cared about him. Whom he knew of.  
“Where am I?” Michael ventured to ask.  
“Knock it off!”a guard said, smacking him with the butt of his gun.  
“You're someone else's problem now,” the guard lucky enough to be sitting across from him said. Michael took the hint that they wanted nothing to do with him. This worked out well, as Michael didn't want anything to do with him either.  
The windows were tinted, obviously to prevent UV-rays from getting in and the back was partitioned off entirely. It didn't matter where he was going. One way or another, he was destined to be locked away ina sealed off room no one wanted him to be in, in the first place.

* * *

Michael had no idea where he was being taken, but S.H.I.E.L.D., or at least these men working for it, wanted him taken here as soon as possible.  
The second the helicopter landed, he was shoved into an armored car. From there he was rushed into into a building, shoved through the entryway, past a receptionist desk he barely got a glimpse of, and into a room.   
The door hadn't yet closed behind him when the argument started. It was muffled by the walls and plexiglass windows. For insisting he was now someone else's problem, the guards spent a long time yelling about him. Or, rather, 'it'. Only the receptionist referred to Michael as 'him'. He couldn't make out much more of the argument, something about forms and another thing about regulations.  
He looked around, hoping to deduce where he was, or at least discover some directions as to what to do. A small camera silently flashed its tiny red lights at him as he stared back at it. The wall next to him was a giant window, from floor to ceiling, only interrupted by a support beam in the middle. Outside was nothing new, flawlessly clean and colorless everywhere and several numbered doors along corridors. The other walls were solid, save for the one behind him. Part of it was a thin, tall window that overlooked the receptionist, who was still arguing. He couldn't make out the writing on any signs near her from any angle. He'd run away from a small white, empty room in a maximum-security prison, and he had ended up in a larger, white, almost empty room hat might as well be in a different prison.  
The room was lined with chairs with a low table in the middle of the room and a television I n the corner silently running a show about rainbow monstrosities. There was a child's toy near it, made of wires and wooden beads. Michael was sure even touching it would reduce the IQ of anyone who interacted with it.  
If it weren't for the receptionist and what appeared to be a waiting room that he'd been left in, he suspected he'd been returned to The Raft after some sort of money-wasting joke.  
The argument continued for several long, dull minutes. S.H.I.E.L.D. had seemed to have jumped the gun about whose problem he was now.  
Eventually someone new arrived. She sped down the hallway as her professional attire and luggage would let her. She glanced at him through the large window, her smile immediately melting into stern anger and she turned away.  
'Wonderful,' he thought. 'I pissed someone off by just standing here. Still cuffed, even.'  
The argument ended abruptly as she arrived at the scene. A few seconds later, the door opened and the woman somehow manage to drag one of the S.H.I.E.L.D. guards into the room, while struggling with her clipboard and luggage.  
“Now!” she yelled, pointing at Michael, or rather, his cuffs. She shoved the S.H.I.E.L.D. guard roughly away and began balancing her items in her arms. “You're already violating several rules.”  
“Your funeral lady,” the guard scoffed, pulling Michael’s hands as far from the rest of him as he could before unlocking them reluctantly.  
“If that happens, you and your facility will likely be held responsible for failing to follow procedures. Now take your stuff and get out!”  
Michael stared at the door as the guard left and slammed it closed. The receptionist was pleased when he and his colleagues were finally gone. Michael, though, wasn't sure about his predicament. This woman was much more intimidating than the guards, who always carried tasers. He hoped she wasn't armed. Then again, she wore a large lab coat over her simple business suit. If he had been sent to be studied, her being armed was the least of his worries. He suddenly took note that the windows weren't made of glass, but of a more shatter-proof plastic.  
“I am so sorry for that,” she said, sitting down and opening the notebook on her clipboard. “Do you prefer to be addressed as Dr. Morbius or Michael? Or something else?”  
“Um...Michael,” he answered.  
“Alright, Michael, my name is Linda Stevens. You're free to call me whatever you like,” she said, opening up her suitcase and taking out one of two smaller cases. “If you need anything to feel more comfortable, go right ahead and tell me. If you have any questions about any part of this, please don't hesitate to ask. This is a rather easy assessment; it should take about 20 minutes to complete, but there's not penalty for going over. Take all the time you need.” She lifted a thin laptop from the larger case she had pulled out, and a mouse and mousepad from the smaller one still in the suitcase.   
'She's bad at this,' he thought. It wasn't unusual for doctors to try and trick him into complacency before pulling out the knives. They tended to be a lot less subtle than outright offering anything to him.  
“I'd like to know where I am.”  
She froze in the middle of plugging the mouse into the laptop.  
At first he'd thought he'd won, shown her for what she was and waited for threats or even for her pull a syringe out of one the pockets on her lab coat. That was as close to winning as Michael had come to expect.  
What he got wasn't what he expected.  
“Oh, Dear Lord,” she muttered angrily as she held the bridge of her nose. “I'm sorry, was none of this explained to you at all? I'm not sure if it's incompetence of self-sabotage in an attempt to keep out of trouble, but it's not your fault.”  
“Only that I was your problem now.” And if he felt like he wanted to be a problem for her, he would be.  
Her eyes flicked away from him and her lips pulled back from her teeth slightly as she forced herself not to inwardly hiss at struggling where to start. “This is...going to be quite the transition. Please try not to be alarmed.”  
Michael narrowed his eyes at her. He wasn't fond of people stalling and he didn't like her new tactic sugarcoating things for him. Her statement definitely indicated he should be alarmed.   
“This is the Brooklyn Institute for Mental Health. You're here because there are no jails that can handle your medical condition. Your friends have produced a writ of Habeus Corpus and are suing for compensation on your behalf. However, Ms. Jaffrey heard about the case and has filed a countersuit, demanding you be moved to Bellevue Hospital under maximum security instead, claiming you pose too much fof a danger. The D.A. has asked for a mental health test . Usually we do that in a court office, but that's held during the day and permission was given to hold the test here. If you need or want anything at any time, just speak up.”  
He was sure he found it, the hole in her claim. He could use this chink in her armor to force her to tell him what her real scheme was. “I don't have any friends,” he stated, crossing his arms.  
“Hector Baez and Max Modell are the ones who presented the case on your behalf,” she said, her pen loudly scratching away at her notepad. “Neither of them are your friends?”  
Michael’s shoulders sagged and his arms fell into his lap. Even if she was just another nasty scientist trying to coerce him onto a dissection table, the situation in question had been his fault entirely. “They both hate me. Especially Max.” He wanted to look away, but focused on keeping his eyes on her while he faced his hands.   
“You're not upset with them about anything?” she asked, her pen scratching halting on the spot. “You don't think any feelings toward you were undeserved?”  
“I don't really have the right to,” he mumbled at the floor.  
“They're coming tomorrow afternoon to pick you up,” she said, her voice growing softer.  
He looked up at her. Hector didn't care, he just hated him on principle of considering Michael a huge nuisance.   
Michael didn't want to talk to Max. He didn't want to be in the same room as Max. He didn't even want Max to know where he was. Thinking about how much of Max's memories and feelings for him was already painful. Standing next to the resentment in person would be hell.  
On the other hand, this was still just another prison. It merely replaced the cuffs with an annoying woman who asked mindless questions. He probably wouldn't be able to get his hands on medical books this time around; she'd be on to him. He'd have to deal with this lady or other doctors if he wanted to stave off boredom. If they felt like letting him.  
“Here.” She offered him a tissue from her pocket and indicated to his lip, which had twitched under one of his sharp fangs. “Why don't I give him a call and you can tel him you'd prefer other arrangements.”  
Michael nodded, accepting the tissue. Bleeding everywhere wasn't going help his image. Even if he didn't care, Max and Hector would. He still owed Max...even more now that Max was getting involved in trying to help again.  
She pulled a phone out of one of her large lab coat pockets and began to dial. “I'm sure he’ll understand. If not, I'll talk to them. Complicating things now won't help anyone.”  
'Except Ms. Jeffrey' Michael thought. 'Either way, I hurt someone yet again.'  
“Hello, do you have time to speak with Dr. Michael Morbius? No, it's just that nothing has been explained to him until just now and he's concerned about your plans for later.” After a few seconds she handed the phone to him.  
Everything slipped from Michael's mind as he took the phone. Everything but Max and how much Michael had hurt him. Everything but how much Michael had failed to solve things and ended up making it all so much worse.  
He didn't care if his lip was still bleeding after biting it in worry. He didn't remember Ms. Jaffrey at all, just that someone had been an unfortunate victim right in front of his good friend—former good friend.   
“...Max...?” he managed to whisper before nearly losing control of himself. He grabbed his arm holding the phone to steady it as it began to shake. “...I'm sorry...I'm just....I'm so sorry.”  
“Michael, calm down. Everything will be fine,” Hestor said He seemed to be in a hurry to leave the conversation already.  
“But--” Michael pleaded, barely listening to the words.   
“It wasn't not your fault. Trust me. We've got video footage of the incident and Hector says he found a case we can use in your favor . You're innocent and I know we can prove it.”  
“I don't think I understand,” Michael said. He didn't know how to react to this. Why wasn't Max mad at him?  
“You warned me everything and I still wanted you at the lab. I got caught up in seeing my friend who'd disappeared for so long and then I was too busy and excited about everyone's work, especially yours. I should have kept a better eye on things. Spider-Man should have, too. Don't worry; well fix this.”  
Michael ignored the last two sentences. He might not be able to put their friendship back together, but if he could finish a project or two he could fix the damage to Horizon's reputation he had caused and more than earn the money to make up for the physical damages.  
“Are you okay?” Max asked.  
“I think so,” Michael answered, his voice shaking again. He had no idea about his situation other than Max didn't seem bothered by it. “They want me to take some sort of test.”  
“Go on. It's just a formality,” Max said. He wasn't a good liar. He was worried. “They're not going to find anything wrong with you.” That was the lie, or at least the source of the unease that Max was trying hurry out of the conversation from.  
“I will,” Michael replied. Whatever Max wanted, he'd do.  
“If they want you to sign anything, you can always call me again.”  
“Yes,” was all Michael could think of to say.   
“I gotta go right now or I'll miss checking in for our flight.”  
“Your what?” How much else had no one bothered to explain to him?  
“Horizon's in California now. Y'know, you did a lot less damage compared to some of the other guys. Two people blew up the last lab...or misplaced it, we never figured out which. And Peter and Sajani....long story. I gotta go.” The last word was cut off as Max hung up.  
“I guess I should take your test,” Michael said, handing the phone back to Linda. dquo; was all Michael could think of to say. “I gotta go right now or I'll miss checking in for our flight.” “Your what?” How much else had no one bothered to explain to him? “Horizon's in California now. Y'know, you did a lot less damage compared to some of the other guys. Two people blew up the last lab...or misplaced it, we never figured out which. And Peter and Sajani....long story. I gotta go.” The last word was cut off as Max hung up. “I guess I should take your test,” Michael said, handing the phone back to Linda.


	2. Chapter 2

Linda smiled and closed the laptop, pushing it towards towards Michael after turning it in his direction, but kept a hand firmly on top. “Are you sure you want to start right now? It's important that you do this in the most comfortable environment we can provide.”

“What do you mean?” he asked. 'Comfortable' hadn't been a word he'd taken into consideration for a long time. The Raft hadn't provided beds, and he was one of the few prisoners who acclimated to that immediately. Before that, he was living in a sealed storage unit inside of a another sealed storage unit in Horizon Labs when he wasn't not completely disguised. The compartment in the floor was an unused tank meant for storing bio-hazard waste or radioactive equipment. It was barely meant to be lived near, let alone lived in. Before that, he lived in abandoned sewer tunnels and before that, 'comfortable' meant he ignored rats, bugs, leaks, foul odors, and fouler people and just meant a place to hide from the sun. Whatever it meant to her, it was untranslatable to him.

“Cushions, music...they won't look that great, but we could give you more comfortable clothes. Prison uniforms aren't really allowed here, anyway.”

Michael tugged at his collar and stared at the fabric, as if offended by it. He had become so used to it by then that he had forgotten he was wearing such an outfit. That didn't mean he liked it. He preferred tighter clothing, and less of it sometimes. He contemplated asking to take the shirt part off, but then stopped himself. He couldn't imagine her allowing that, let alone not being disgusted by the thought.

He didn't want to offend her, in case Max had indeed found a well-intentioned—or at least paid enough not to care about being near him when he could be calmed to prevent a hunger frenzy—scientist. It was the reason he'd kept that old coat around. It was disgusting, probably harboring a dozen diseases, but anyone who came to see him without his disguise preferred it to his open shirt and half-bare chest.

“Music?” he asked, letting go of his collar. He was tempted. Especially to see if she'd follow through with what she was offering or just baiting him. He was extremely tired of the latter. It wasn't asking much...he assumed. Even Max could find music. What crazy evil scientist who wanted him as an experiment or trophy would bother, though?

“Whatever you prefer,” she said, trying to coax an answer out of him with a smile. She couldn't help but be amused. His friend Max had already mentioned what he liked. “We don't judge. It won't be on the test, either. It won't even be in my notes. What kind of music do you enjoy?”

“What happens if I fail?” he asked. He hadn't had an opportunity to study this area of science since early college, long before he had become a nobel laureate. He had passed it up both because it was still in its easrly years and full of ridiculousness and because he couldn't garner the interest enough to begin to fill out an application for the classes. He might as well try his knowledge on herpetology or arachnology now.

“You can't fail a psychological test, Michael.” She opened the laptop for him. “This is just a behavior and emotional assessment. And no, even if this was a test you could fail, I'm very sure you wouldn't.”

He stared at the screen. The questions looked simple enough. It appeared more likely that the questions were irrelevant and the entire test was how well he dealt with boredom and pedantic tasks. He might as well have been told to do something with the idiotic toy with wooden beads for an hour.

“Only these?” he asked, incredulously. There had to be a catch. Nothing was this easy for him. Even if Max trusted her and had a legal team to find and punish her if they crossed him, there was always something complicated and dangerous involved. There was some way he'd ruin everything. There had to be.

“There's also a short interview. I'll be watching you throughout both of them. It's an assessment of how you act in a normal environment—no outside pressure or threats—and to see if there's any indication of underlying medical problems.”

Michael went silent. He thought about explaining the things he did—what he was used to, mistakes and accidents that had happened, intentions gone wrong, but he quickly figured those would just dig him an early grave. He could end up in Bellevue. Or on the dissection table.

“This is for court and going back to work at Horizon,” she said, noticing his reluctance. “You don't need to impress anyone. Besides, everything here is entirely confidential. No one is going to know anything about what happened here except medical information gathered from your stay. Not even Max.”

He watched her for a moment. She didn't move, save for crossing her legs. She was waiting, but not demanding. Even her pen was still and patient. Crueler scientists didn't have the time to wait for him. Or the patience. He had no reason not to believe her now, but logic wasn't winning over his fear.

He hated when this happened. He had thought like this long before he had decided to become a scientist. He couldn't let fear overrule all the clues that she was just another human, one who happened to be a handy tool to return to what he never wanted to be forced to give up.

He set one hand on the keyboard and one on the mouse. Stiffening his arm, he hurriedly tried to get the mouse to move accurately and only getting wild and violently erratic movements from his efforts to work with it. Even attempts at slow and careful movements created unhelpful and awkward zooms of the cursor.

She sighed heavily, pressing her hand to the bridge of her nose. “Michael...please stop.”

He did, tearing his hands away as if he'd set the computer on fire and practically freezing in place as he watched her like venomous snake he'd just stepped in front of. All he knew was in his attempt to keep from being marked as insane, he'd ended up looking too stupid to work a simple computer task. He had managed to type three letters—all wrong—and already he had failed miserably and was paying the consequences.

She stood up and unplugged the mouse, careful not to touch him. She knew he wouldn't understand it was an effort to invade his personal space as little as possible. She quietly took the mouse and it's pad and set them own as she plugged the cord into the other side of the laptop. “No one's going to be offended if you tell them you're left-handed,” she said, back away. “Are you sure you don't want some music?”

“Perhaps later.” He didn't want to be distracted in case his instincts were right about her. Even if they were wrong, he'd feel much better watching her than listening to a few nostalgic songs. He wished he could ask her to leave. He worked better without having to worry about how dangerous someone was. His hazmat suit disguise at Horizon had been bulky and difficult to move in, but it made up for it as no one wanted to come too close or see what he was doing for very long. No one he didn't trust, at least.

“There's no pressure,” she said, keeping up her friendly tone. She had to be cheerful and encouraging, but she knew he felt she was lying through her teeth.

She had expected him to act just as he had been described: quiet, reclusive, stubborn, extremely intelligent, and having no trust in someone new acting as his doctor. What she should have been told was that he was like a cat stuck in a tree. He was still too terrified to come down, and no matter how many cute noises or treats you offered him, the best solution was to leave him alone in silence and hope he'd eventually start missing comfy beds and dry roofs over them.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

Michael closed the laptop as quietly as he could and shoved it forward, his gaze fixated on the doctor.

Linda didn't look at him, save for a short moment of eye contact and smiling at him before she stood up and began to pack up the computer. “Most people tend to ask about the test, especially the last part.”

“Should I have?” Michael asked.

“Only if you had a quation,” she replied, sounding casual.

Silence.

“It's called a conversation Michael. You're free to join in with anything you like.”

“No, thank you.”

He was going to be one of those clients. Stubborn. Insulted to be here. Angry that everyone was going along with it instead of kicking him out and telling him not to come back unless he actually had a problem. He acted like a cat who didn't understand why you gave him a bath. All he could do was sit there and glare just out of reach, and know you could do even less. At least he wasn't hissing at her.

“I have to return these so the test results can be processed and sent to my office. Why don't you take this time to relax before the interview? If you want anything, I'll be right outside talking to Maia over there at the reception desk. You can interrupt us for anything you want. It doesn't matter what it is.”

“Miss Stevens,” Michael suddenly said. There was no anger behind his voice, just force. “I've lived through a coup of my own country and riots against it, useless police, harsh government reactions, threats of soviet invasions, and dealing with unknown affects from survivors of a nuclear fallout. I have been through excruciating cancer and an even worse attempts at treating it that resulted in over ten years of living in garbage and sewage. I've seen and been through things you would not understand. If that's not enough of an interview, could you at least stop treating me like a child?”

This time he was the one who was met with silence. She froze in mid-movement, too stunned to remember what she was doing or to have a rebuttal.

“You wouldn't want to hear what else I'd ask for, anyway,” he said, this time in a calm manner, as if to imitate her without mocking her.

“No one joins this profession to be comfortable, Michael,” she said, finally knowing what to say. This she knew he'd understand. “You didn't become and M.D. and expect to never see something you didn't want to. I work on the emotional side. Sometimes you see horrible stuff, sometimes it's minor, and somethings people just come in. I have your records from S.H.I.E.L.D., interviews from friends, court stenography, and articles written about you from more than just the New York tabloid. I'm not threatened by you, and I'm pretty sure whatever you want won't surprise or insult me. Go on.”

“Are you sure this is the only place willing to hold me?” he asked.

“Why?”

“Because there is nothing wrong with my head,” he said, holding back his anger. He had to be careful. Here, emotional outbursts could label him as nothing more than a growling, vicious monster. “I am not stupid. I do not hear voices. I do not have strange perversions. I am not an addict or doing things for attention. I never wanted to hurt anyone. The only people who say otherwise are those who insist I'm a monster. I'd rather go back The Raft. There they just think I'm dangerous and don't care if I intend anything or not. ”

Sheturned back to her task and zipped up the case for the laptop. “I'm not going to be afraid of you until you start throwing chairs or tearing through walls. As for everything else you've said, I need to return these and make a few requests before I answer them. And I will.”

She checked the bags, straightened up, opened the door, and paused, holding it open. “This door isn't locked. If you're curious, you can come out and see what I'm doing or you can ask Maia about it.”

“I'd rather not disturb her, given the fight,” Michael said. “I'd probably scare her anyway.”

“I can't guarantee she won't be scared, but I promise you won't get in trouble for it. And there's no penalty for changing your mind.”

He watched in silence as she let the door close behind her. He turned in his seat to continue watching her as, true to her word, she walked right up to the receptionist. Maybe the facility was safe, but he didn't know if she was. He'd been in this country for over ten years, and other than his wife, he'd found a total three people to truly confide in, and their trust had always worn thin due to his antics. Most people he couldn't trust without breaking it by being closer than five feet away. Linda may be just another psychiatrist, or she may be a good actor. He had no cluewhich. Perhaps pampering people was indeed part of her job.

“I need this,” she said, jotting something down on her pad, then ripping out the page and handing it to Maia. “And these should be sent to his room,” she added, writing on and ripping off another piece for the receptionist. Linda waited, helping herself to the water cooler by the door and leaning against the desk.

Linda might have been a good actor, knowing the secrets of how to pry important and even damaging information out of him, but the receptionist certainly wasn't. She was confused by the orders, and seemed worried when her question was cut off by “Just do it.” She nervously went to her tasks of printing and typing. Once she moved on to a phone call, Linda grabbed the papers and headed back to the room, not even giving Maia a sideways glance as the receptionist shot a shaky wave and a smile at Michael before covering the phone so he couldn't hear the conversation. She had figured he could hear through the glass. He didn't know he wasn't meant to.

“Take a look at this,” Linda said, startling Michael away from watching Maia. “It's from your your lawyer Among other things is making sure your criminal record, short of breaking a window with the fine paid has bee redacted.”

Michael gently took the envelope she handed to him, avoiding touching her in anyway with his claws. He set it aside as she sat down and they bother prepared themselves for a long and difficult conversaition.

“As for everything else you brought up, the time to convince me you're anything like those you know as Shriek or Carnage has long since passed. As for your mental capabilities, that's technically cognitive impairment, not mental health. We don't treat that here, and I see no evidence you have any problems like that.”

She waited. He waited back. She caved. “You're not going to look at it?”

Michael rolled his eyes. “I've dones this before. I hardly doubt this time I'll have a lawyer determined to prove I'm a decent person. From your expression, I've got nowhere else to be, and until the person I've bitten thinks I'm no longer a monster like last time, I'm going to be here for a long time. Details aren't worth bothering with; either they'll spin them to make the hury ignore them or they'll say I couldn't help it because I'm not human.”

“There's more, Micheal,” Linda said, letting her nervousness show in her voice. “Spider-Man wants to negotiate in person. He doesn't want to settle in court if he doesn't have to. If this is something you feel you can't emotionally handle--”

“I have to.” Michael cut her off. “Max already started something; I can't tell him to end things now. I just want to spend as little time as possible hearing his accusations.”

“You're not concerned about being accused of murder?” Linda asked. Usually sociopaths were more charismatic that he had acted. Still, he had to care in some way about the trial, didn't he?

“I'm rather sure every one—even those from before my last trial—will be used against me. I don't have a good reason to fight them. I'm not going to defend the monster part of me, just what's left of the human part. That's wy I'm talking to you, isn't it?”

Linda sighed. “Yes, that's why you're here. Even without that statement, I can say you're very human, Michael. It's the reason why I'm conducting these tests.If I find eveidence from them, you can be eligibile togo to Mental Health Court instead. You have to plead guilty, but that doesn't mean the judge is going to agree with the plea. There's no incarceration if you are found guilty. You'd be assigned community service and therapy. I promise this place is much more comfortable than The Raft, and you'll only be here for a few days, most likely.”

“I'd have to admit I was insane?” Michael asked, less enthused than before.

“No, you have to admit you acted due to circmstances you need help with—suicidal intentions, trauma, desperation from poverty—I really doubt it'd be convincing for you to blame drug use.”

“The first two would explain the window,”he replied. “But only that. Desperation...I doubt the courts would be concerned about that in regards to me.”

“Michael, that could lead to a mistrial and excuse you from everything. It's discrimination to assume somone disabled, even like you or with your history—or worse—could act under desperation.”

He sighed. There was no more stalling he could think of. “You might as well get your interview over with,” he said, tossing the papers onto the table. He had spoken the word 'interview', but anyone could tell he meant 'interrogation'. No amount of smiles or explanations or bribes was going to change his mind about it.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

Before, Linda had thought this would be like putting a child to bed: panic, insults, stalling, distractions, outright refusals for cooperation, and possibly even physical resistance. Now, she realized he wasn't going to do any of that. To him, this was going to be much more like bending him over her knee and striking him until he came up with an acceptable answer. They both expected a confession; she was the only one who understood they each had their own version of the term.

“Michael, whatever you think is going to happen, it won't. The whole point of this is to get emotional context without your answers influenced by fear or coercion.”

“You won't help me,” he muttered, placing his hands back in his lap and looking past her. He no longer considered her a threat, more something boring he wished would leave or go back to being a threat.

“Can't or won't?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Won't,” he stated, placing his hands flat between his knees. “I don't need heightened senses to smell money.”

“Michael, this is free,” she commented.

He shook his head. “I don't want to meet with anyone. I don't want to stay here. I don't want to be forcefed any drugs and I don't want to be cut up and stabbed as a test subject. I don't want to sit here and guess what answer you want so you can prove something for another research grant. The only reasons you haven’t tossed me in a room and made up your analysis is because your check is riding on proper procedure.”

Linda quietly set her pen and pad of paper down on the table. “I'm sorry. This is my fault; I completely overestimated S.H.I.E.L.D.'s competency and how much you had been informed. The only thing keeping you here is this interview. No one's committed you here and I haven't signed any orders. There's no bail set, given your previous compliance with the courts. Maia called local jails just now,” she pulled her phone out of her pocket and glanced at it. She typed a response while turning back to Michael. “None of the other jails will take you, I'm sorry. It's a matter of being able to provide for you.

“You're not staying here, you're being accommodated. You're just here to wait for your fri—Max and Hector. It's perfectly legal for you to walk out that door when this is over, but to be honest, you have no money, you're in a costume, and it's 1:00 on a sunny afternoon. Frankly, I'd recommend you use your time here as if it were a hotel. If you ever wanted to be spoiled, this would be the best time to take advantage of the opportunity.”

“In exchange for what?” he asked. He wasn't used to people offering him anything pleasant without the other shoe being droped first.

“Hardly any bargains you're used to. Practically nothing,” she said, hoping to convince him this place was a harmless as it was supposed to be. “Usually we require residents to adhere to a regulated schedule as to encourage social activity, but you aren't required to be here. Plus, as much as I'm fine interacting with you, the institute would rather not risk you scaring our patients—or any of them scaring you. We only require adherence to hygiene rules and dress code from you, If you are truly intersted in social activities, I can see what I can arrange, however.”

“What about drugs?” he asked.

Linda pressed her fingers to her temple. This was going to be a long day. “You're not committed here. You never were. We can't administer anything unless there's an emergency. At most, you're fed blood out of regulation thermoses.”

She was received with a long pause; he was still doubting he'd be free of danger intended and ill-treatment for once. “That's it?”

“That's it, Michael.”

“No tests?” he asked.

“If we suspect any tests are needed, we'd need your written consent first.”

More silence. Minutes of silence. Then, a few words, hoping to return to silence. “I have no answers. I don't know and never have.”

He didn't receive silence. “You're referring to when you bit Ms. Jaffrey?” She didn't even miss a beat. She knew exactly what he meant.

“Yes. Isn't that...?” he didn't know if he should finish the sentence, let alone if he should have started it. It was too late to backpedal now.

“That's more likely something the prosecutor would be interested in. What I need to ask you about is what prompted your actions right after that. Everyone reported you as perfectly compliant with Max and the police until then. Did you remember any of that?”

Linda's breath caught in her throat as she watched him for an answer. She expected to slowly wheedle out an explanation of simple surprise and panic over finding blood in his mouth and yet another victim after so long. Nearly every patient she had met had tried to run away from confusion or fear. This should have been easy, even normal, for all his refusal and stalling. It wasn't.

Instead, she watched something inside of him crumble. The last bit of strength he had to defy her and what little he had to hide behind to protect himself from a friend who had gone to the trouble of making sure Michael was treated like a human being again had been torn down and he was afraid of picking up the pieces. His gaze drifted to the floor, almost as if he wanted to watch the proverbial pile of dust. “Everything. I remember everything after that. I had answers for whatever you wanted to ask, except about that...I thought I had answers.” His voice cracked, turning hoarse. He shook his head, tossing long, matted curls about. He managed to speak, his voice cracking from the emotions, ones that became obvious he feared more than her. “I don't even know where it came from. I just wanted my friend to think of me as a human...a real person. Even in prison, even if the police took me away, I could be treated like one. I thought I could leave him with enough to finish the cure if they came to get me first. I could get out of jail with the money I made at Horizon like anyone else. Not a bribe, but whatever fines or bail or whatever punshiment I deserved.”

“Michael, are you saying planned to send yourself to jail?” Linda asked. If The Raft turned out to be the best thing to happen to him that day, how confused did he have to be to think that way?

“I didn't have a choice.” The strength in voice had returned. Flat, unemotional, dull, nothing but a statement. Water is wet. The sky is blue. “Horizon was losing donors and grants by the day because of me. I needed the DNA of the boy, but no one wanted to give Max permission for anything related to my work. If I ran away, he'd come looking for me, or Spider-Man would. The problems wouldn't stop until I was officially gone. At least Max would remember me like everyone else...like I used to be. Horizon was his dream and I was killing it.”

Linda wondered if he ever thought jail would keep Spider-Man from bothering him. “You don't put any of that blame on Spider-Man for outing you?”

Michael shook his head again. “He was right. He called me a 'loser',” Michael's accent beecame thick, his tongue working with the word as if it were a piece of hot shrapnel lodged in his teeth. “He told me there was nothing tragic about my life anymore. He was right.” It was a confession. Truth forced out. His truth.

“You don't seem to hold any hatred towards him when you talk about him, yet you seem afraid of him.”

“I just want to be done with him,” Michael said, practically pleading to the carpet. “I don't want any 'help' or apologies. I don't want to wait until he changes his mind again, or what he thinks is right for me, I don't care if he thinks he understands or if it's just pity. I don't want any more to do with him.”

“He's offered these things before?” There weren't any news articles of these two getting along. Ever.

“He's insisted most of the time. I tried—I thought I could predict it. I don't want to anymore. I don't want to blame him or hate him or admire him or anything. I don't want anything to do with him. I want to be done with him.”

“That sounds like a wise choice, Michael,” she said, suddenly scribbling in her notepad.

He looked up, wondering what had happened. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing without your permission, Michael. I can recommend a restraining order or perhaps requiring Spider-Man take courses on conduct or anger management while keeping his identity secret. I can't promise anything—it's hard to serve orders to someone who has no civilian identity or address—but a note from a psychiatrist could have some impact if you wanted it written up and would affect any contracts if anyone hires him. I could at least let Hector know that meeting with Spider-Man face-to-face would be itself and that if he wants to settle, he probably should ask for different conditions.”

“You can do that?” Michael asked. He was still confused that someone in authority agreed with him about any of this. No more fault utomatically lying with the vampire, even if it was an accident.

“I'm not a lawyer, but my signature can be used to put pressure on him. If he still insists, he'd be negotiating against a lot more compensation than before.”

“Only if I want?” Confusion still.

“Only if you want, Michael.”

“Then yes, please. I don't care if you tell them he hurt me. I would appreciate anything to keep from having to worry about what he will do next.”

“I'll do everything I can for you, Michael, I promise.”

“That's all there is,” he said, returning to the floor. “All I wanted was to be human for Max, at least to be as close to one as I could for him.. But...I suddenly found myself more monster than anything. In front of Max. I know I was shot by the child, but all I could think of was that it could have been his blood in my mouth, and after everything he had done for me.

“Except...there was more. I remembered everything. I could heard Niko's voice fading. I could feel the boat rocking under my feet. I could smell the ocean.

“I could have lost Max the same way. I don—didn't want to lose my last good friend just because I couldn't do enough for them like I always have. I don't want to be that….to him.” His voice faded away. There was something else now, something she couldn't see. “I'm sorry, I don't even know what I am anymore.” He wiped his eyes on his sleeve and kept his head bowed.

He couldn't keep it up anymore. No one had ever tried to help him like this since...since before he had been turned into this mockery of mythology and mankind again. He couldn't stop the tears.

“Michael?” Linda asked, softly, leaning towards him while making sure she stayed in her seat. She had no idea if personal space was still one of the few things he had to himself or if it was now just another awkward luxury everyone else could afford easily while he barely remembered the meaning.

No answer. No movement save for soft shaking of his thick, rustled his hair. Then drops began to fall from his face to the fabric of his pants. No more hiding what he was doing. No more pretending it never happened before.

No more comfort by keeping it a secret.

She pulled out a packet of tissues from a different pocket of her coat. “Here,” she said, sliding it along the table. “Michael, it's okay,” she said as she carefully pulled her hand away

His hand left his knee and moved towards the tissues, then swiftly retreated back. His shaking had lessened. Both hands curled over his knees, pulling at the fabric. More drips. He was calculating. Would he lose more giving in and inviting condescension or fighting this out alone while being watched?

“Michael, Max doesn't blame you for what happened. He told me to make sure everyone here understood it was outside forces that caused what happened. Spider-Man and Ms. Jaffery may say something different, but I'm only here to help listen to what you say. You're safe here. I'l help you with this.”

No answer. One last drip as he reached for the tissues, this time without retreating.

“Michael--”

He held the tissue to his eyes, as if to concentrate on hold it there. “I don't want to see Max. I ran away—flew away. He couldn't have suspected I was innocent then and...he wouldn't have cared. I just wanted to get away.”

“To where?” she asked. It was an innocent question. She finally had an ulterior motive and it was to distract him from being so upset. She wasn't digging for more information this time. She had enough of that.

She got more. “Away. Anywhere. I just wanted to disappear. He was my last friend in the world and he wasn't anymore. He couldn't be. I just wanted to disappear from the world. I didn't didn't want to be a part of it anymore, so much of it would be better off without me.”

“Michael, that's—that all for now. If you want to leave immediately, we can hold all your things in your room. If you'd like to stay, I can escort you there after you ake some time to calm down. No need to rush, this kind of thing is rarely enjoyable.”

“I'm sorry,” he mumbled, crumpling the wet tissue in his hands. More work for others. More burdens. He was a nuisance again. He couldn't even find a reason to strike her. She wasn't violent or angry and her threats amounted to making him talk some more.

“Michael, this is completely understandable for a man who's been through what you have. It’s perfectly healthy to express feelings like this. It's human.”

No punishment. No locking himself away for longer in here. No drugs. No needles. After so much fear of revisiting that moment, someone had given him back what he'd thought he'd lost in it.

A doctor had promised him he was human.

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

  1. Minutes ticked by silently.

Slowly, Michael regained his composure. Linda ignored him. It was a comforting gesture, at his unspoken request.

It was even longer before he spoke up, finally bored with being left alone to himself. “I think I've used up enough of your time,” he muttered quietly, almost as if he didn't want to be heard.

“I can escort you to your room if that's what you want,” she offered.

“I think that would be best. If you no longer need anything from me.”

“Nothing you can't do on your own,” she said, standing up. “What I need from you most is for you to relax.” She offered her hand to him as she opened the door.

Michael stood up, as if on command. Tentatively, he reached out for the door, stopping just shy of touching her, and waited for her to shy away before gently grasping he handle.

He was led away from the entrance, away from the Maia, away from witnesses. As he was led down the hallway, his fears began to resurface. More white. All white. Noting but pristine, shining white, all scrubbed clean of any evidence living beings had ever stepped foot beyond the closed doors. All that broke up the monotony were the names on the doors, the only presence of any kind of individuality. Names, medications, the rare extra notice: claustrophobia, diabetic, observe every five minutes. He began to worry that there was truth to his earlier suspicions; you were only human when sealed away, as long as you continued to behave as you were told.

“Here's your room,” she said, stopping almost at the end of the hallway before it lead to the doors to a large room. He could hear someone sobbing at the other end, a few people were quietly playing a game at a table, and a few seemed to be wandering aimlessly. The door to his room had no label, just a piece of paper taped to his door and with misspelled information written on it. “I'm sorry, Maia seems to have been in a hurry that day. I had her print out some articles I thought you might be interested in. I hope those go a little better.” She made a point of gently opening his door for him. “We don't lock doors here, Michael. You're free to wander around or leave whenever you want. Someone will come by to check on you through the window ever half hour to record what you're doing and in case you need anything. It's standard procedure for everyone. I'll be back with some paperwork for you in about an hour. Everything you need should be in the box on your bed. Do you want anything before I leave you alone?”

“You don't seem very worried about your safety around me,” he commented. He was unsure if he should worry or if he should take it as a compliment.

“ Other than your approximate arrival to The Raft, it was one of the few pieces of information S.H.I.E.L.D. gave me over the phone. Properly fed, you're more vulnerable than those around you in most circumstances.”

“I appreciate the sentiment,” he said, moving his hand to hole dhte door open. “I take it you're now in charge of keeping me that way?”

“I'll be setting it up under insurance provided by Hector Baez, who will probably transfer it to company insurance later.”

“I...hope I do not have to return to ask for alternatives.” He abandoned her to the hallway, a human stain on the frigid shine of white on white.

The room was an abrupt change from everything else he'd seen in the hospital. Cool purples and greens; deep, non-provoking reds here and there, and scattering of light blue and yellow hidden among the rest of the colors. A duller, softer white broke up the colors from clashing and creating visual chaos, sorting them out into their own individual spaces and items, forming a spectrum of organization and almost a sense of comfortable normality. It was clean, it was efficient, it was meant to be lived in; there was no dull, inhuman shine to the room, unlike the hall way. The needs of the hospital were well hidden, furniture corners were rounded off, the counter of the bathroom sink doubled as a room divider, and the low doors for the toilet and shower were all well-camouflaged as decoration.

Just as she had said, there was a box waiting for him on the bed, though far more unceremoniously placed than he'd imagined. It was a cheap plastic thing, one used for storing items one hoped never to see again. With nothing left to do, Michael lifted the lid, hoping for a distraction from boredom. Carefully folded and set to the side were clothes, simple sweat pants and a tee shirt—while comfort was emphasized, he noticed the loose neckline and elastic waistband: no easy way to strangle oneself. On top of the clothes someone had places meticulously organized and stacked articles for him to read, while next to the clothes, was a chaotic mess of mismatched bottles and other items that only by a miracle they weren't broken or leaking. Most were donated, perhaps stolen, from hotels, with the logos still on them. The few others were scribbled on with a thick marker in barely intelligible writing. The toothbrush was bulky, yet efficient for it's job. The tines on the comb were large and firmly stuck to the base, making it difficult for someone without his strength to tear them off. No doubt the soap and liquids were all non-toxic.

He gently pulled out the pants and shirt, finding clean socks and underwear hidden underneath. He hoped there were no records of how long it had been since he'd worn either.

A small sense of panic swept through him and he clutched the clothes tight as he meticulously scanned the room for another camera.

None.

He moved behind the bed to change nonetheless; he didn't want any orderlies peeking in on him. He preferred as much privacy as possible when it came to those he didn't fully trust.

Just as scheduled, someone stopped by the window of the door. Michael stopped in middle of donning his shirt and stared back, unsure of what to do. The orderly turned away to jot something on the pages of his clipboard and quickly left.

Shoving his new shirt down, Michael slowly crept to the door. He scanned the hallway through the window, worried he'd be noticed. Gently, hesitantly, he pushed at the door. The door swung open, silent and with no resistance.

He let the door swing closed, unnoticed by anyone but him. He wasn't sure how to take this. He wasn't locked in. The orderly had wandered off, following orders. He could leave any time he wanted. He could wander off and go anywhere he wanted. He had nowhere to go. He didn't want to leave with Max, but he didn't want to be here.

He decided to stand there, almost waiting for the door to have answers for him. Eventually his apprehension turned to boredom. He returned to the bed to look through his box. It had been over a year before he'd had a proper shower; he didn't want his first one in such a long time disturbed by Linda returning to offer more 'help'. Still, it wouldn't hurt to see how much he could enjoy it when he had the opportunity.

There seemed to be fewer items upon the second inspection. Shampoo. Conditioner. Soap. Shaving cream with a note to ask for a razor. Deodorant. The rest was a mess of brochures and print-outs. He passed over the brochures, all of which were rudimentary information and vague bullet points meant to explain the complication out of mental problems for friends and relatives of people who were left here. They weren't reassuring, but they looked nice.

The print-outs were more interesting. Advances in blood testing, finding significant indications of serious medical and mental problems with blood oxygen and blood nutrition levels, further advances thanks to Michael's patents and how he kept ownership butkept no restrictions for further research on them, and a few stories about other vigilantes or heroes he'd met. He decided to ignore the last category. There was no point in getting his hopes up that they cared.

 

* * *

 

There wasn't as much to the print-outs as Michael had hoped. Most of the conclusions were vague and only presumptive. Little credit was given to him, if at all, for anything his research had contributed to. Some papers even speculated some advances were possible when he had accomplished them years ago without a patent. Apparently, curing famous green lawyers can mean a few details end up left out.

The next scheduled orderly arrived with Linda. He stayed outside and kept to his clipboard before leaving. Linda remained to set a metal thermos in front of Michael, who sat on the floor reading. He wasn't used to having a bed yet, she noticed. She kept silent about her observation.

“Blood,” she explained “I wasn't sure how much you'd want, but I'm adamant you have at least this and one other dose before morning.” She held out her clipboard, which held a large, thick envelope. “This is everything you'll need to know about some tests. I recommend them, but they aren’t required. The only thing that will happen if you refuse to take them is they'll end up in my shredder. You can even ask to wait until Max is here if you'd rather have a friend nearby while they're being performed. I promise, they might be a bit awkward, but they're all non-invasive.”

Michael reached up and took the clipboard. It was a slow, deliberate movement, more cautious of the paperwork than of Linda. Once it was in his hand, he stared at Linda, waiting for more ominous news.

She didn't disappoint. She fished her phone out of her pocket and handed it to him so he didn't have to touch her if he didn't want to. “Here. I called Max to make sure you hadn't taken the tests recently. He said he wanted you to talk about them.”

She shook the phone like one would a treat for a dog, trying to coax him into accepting it while giving him permission to take it.

He reluctantly accepted it.

“Just push the 'talk' button. I'll be right outside so you can have some privacy.”

She didn't wait to see if he had any questions. She didn't patronize him by asking, either. She just left; knowing he may be afraid, but he wasn't so much of a coward not to call.

“Hello?” Max wasn't mad. He wasn't in a rush, either. He sounded bored. “Who is this?” Max asked after Michael's few seconds of silence. 'Would things change once he knew who was calling?' Michael wondered.

“Michael. You said to call if they wanted me to sign anything...” He skimmed the notes she had clipped to each stapled bundle. “They want some tests done.” 'Tests'. That word had been a foreboding, treacherous word nearly all his life and had grown more poisonous with every year.

“What kind of tests?” Max didn't like the sound of them either. He was trying not to frighten Michael, but he was never good at hiding his feelings.

“A CT scan,” Michael mentioned, hoping Max would cut him off and tell him to refuse. “An MRI. Something called a polysomnograph.” He knew what the word meant, but he was already convinced the test was probably silly or cruel.

Max's end was quiet as he held the phone away while talking to Hector. Even to Michael's ear, it was nothing but muffled shuffles and mumbling. It didn't take long for Max to return. “We could use those, Michael. There was a lot we couldn't do for you while keeping you a secret at Horizon, remember? We could really use this kind information. At least a CT scan. Why do they want these?”

Michael hoped Max didn't hear him choke on his words. “They want the MRI to compare brain patterns and to see if my psionics are affecting them. The polysomnograph is to look for symptoms of mental problems. They want the CT scan tests to see if any injuries healed wrong and if there's any remaining glass on me.”

“We could use all of those for court, Michael. The prosecution isn't allowed to use private medical information for their case. If it's too risky or we don't need it, we can stil use all that for a cure. We never did learn much about your anatomy, and even with you around, blood tests aren't going to be enough.”

“They'll see everything!” It was a harsh whisper, as if he was afraid of the phone itself having such knowledge.

“If you're afraid, you don't have to sign anything. I can be there with you as much as possible if you want.”

“No.” He was not going to have Max hold his hand. He may be a monster, a traitor, even garbage Max only put up with for money and to boost Horizon's image until he could be discarded, but he wasn’t going to let Max think of him as an unruly or difficult child. “No. I'm...I don't want to give anyone reason not to think of me as human.” It had taken over a week for Michael to accept Jacob was merely confused by his internal oddities and was more preoccupied by Michael's hunting. There was no way he'd be granted the same miracle twice. Not after his negligence had cost him Jacob's life.

“They can't. That could be argued as trying to affect the court case. We could get everything dismissed and sue them for everything they own if she makes that report. It might look bad if you refuse them, but Hector says he can handle that. Don't sign anything if you're too nervous.”

“I understand.” Max could protect him. Max would want to protect him.

“Are you going to be okay until I get there?” Now Max was afraid.

“I will. I'm going to sign them.” Now, no one could use the tests for a facade or to a way to crush their little lab rat. Now they had to play along. Max knew now. Michael knew he'd lost Max for good with them, but he shouldn't have scared his friend in the last days of Max's ignorance.

Max would know soon. Max would see how alien and abhorrent he'd become, even more so on the inside. He'd lose his thin veil of nostalgia for humanity that Max was so endeared to. The would be no more hiding behind a friendship he couldn't repay.

“Goodbye.” He ended the phone call. Now his only hope was a few days at best if Max forgot or the doctors stalled on the diagnosis. Max would have what he wanted and would finally be happy to see his former friend disappear from his life.

 

* * *

 

“That was a lot faster than I expected,” Linda said when Michael opened the door to his room and handed her back the envelope. “I take it you want me to dispose of this.”

“No, actually.” He handed her the phone. “Though I'd prefer you erased my conversation.”

“I certainly can,” she said, taking her phone back. “Protection of private information is important here, including information we aren't allowed to have.”

“I signed the papers for the CT scan and the MRI...I didn't know the date.”

“I can help you with that; it not really a problem. You didn't sign for the polysomnograph, correct?”

“I don't really understand what it is...or does,” he whispered. He had a PhD in hematology and over a decade in studying virology. He was a certified MD. He had cured over 17 million people. Yet he had no idea what this test did. He really wanted this to be private information. He would have preferred if there was a way she could forget this conversation ever happened.

“It's a machine strapped to your chest that records your activity and vital signs while you're asleep. It may feel a bit awkward, but you're not tied down to the bed. It's made so you can move as much as you regularly do while you're asleep and you can even get up and wander around if you feel the need. I'd need to run the machine while you're awake to get a control test to compare to when you're asleep. It may feel weird, but I promise it's completely noninvasive.”

“What would be the purpose?” he asked. He didn't enjoy sleep. He still had nightmares almost every night. Everyone had been jealous down in the metropolis that he has his own bedroom until they were told it was nothing more than a small closet. It was N'Knatu's idea to keep Jack from harassing their only doctor into insomnia. He doubted a machine could just turn the nightmares off.

“You wouldn't be aware of what happens when you're asleep. Even the most minor problems like nightmares or sleep apnea could contribute to problems with your mental health or even your physical state. They could even be triggers or symptoms of a larger problem. I promise, the only people allowed to see the anything that happens during the test are you and me.”

“What if they have nothing to do with such problems?” He still kept his voice low. He didn't know how many other employees would have knowledge of what he'd be subjected to or what problems they'd imply.

“We still try to solve them, no matter how minor,” Linda said. She was just guessing at what he wanted, now.

Michael didn't reply.

“Discretely,” she guessed at the detail she as omitting.

“If you can promise all that, I'd gladly participate.” Michael glanced around before returning to a normal speaking voice. “Did you need anything else from me?”

“When did you want to take the first two tests?” she asked, her attention moving to her clipboard.

“As soon as possible.” The more time he had, the better chance he had to get away if something went wrong. It would be too easy for them to chase away Max and surprise him while he slept if he gave them ample time and confidence while thinking of him as some demon or creature.

“Alright. If you'll give me a moment.” She tucked her clipboard under her arm and typed a long message on her phone. “I'm going to need some time to prepare everything for you,” she said, still focused on typing. “You won't need to change, we can take the scans in those clothes. They won't interfere with the machines. However, I'm going to need to do one more thing just before we start. I'm sorry I didn't ask you for it before. When was the last time you had your eyes checked?”

“I can't really remember,” he said, baffled by her curiosity.

“I'm worried the scans won't pick up smaller oddities. I want to take a quick look myself just before the tests. Its just a penlight, but if you're uncomfortable, I can forgo it. You wouldn't even need to sign anything.”

“That sounds fine; it hardly sounds like much.”

“Alright, just give me—I'll need for you to follow me. I just got clearance to start.” She moved her arm slightly, then looked down at his hands, which stayed still at his side. She smiled, hoping that would make up for potentially offending him and turned to walk down the hallway, back towards the entrance. She turned away from the receptionist, down a short hallway and then away from the outside. “Is something bothering you?” she asked as they stopped at an elevator. There was a card reader with a keypad right next to it. Her card remained on the lanyard around her neck.

Michael's red eyes narrowed and focused on her card. “I don't trust you as much as you think I do. At any time you could declare me any number of things. You could have me locked in here until you became bored with me, you could have me thrown in Bellevue or claim I'm too dangerous for even that. You could even have me executed or handed over for some experiment because you've decided all this time that I've just been mimicking pain instead of truly able to feel it. I'm wondering if you deserve such distrust. Regardless, if you are going to ask, I'm going to remind you that Max has been informed about these; he won't be happy with any new decisions or 'problems' with the tests, even if he agrees with you about them.”

“That's...um...Is there a reason for such suspicion?” she asked. She looked sideways to the keypad. He wasn't protesting the tests or threatening anything over them.

“Max can explain when he arrives,” Michael said, still staring at her card. He was tired of telling people everything about his life when they already knew it or were so sinister they didn't care about things like empathy towards someone like him. “If he feels like it.”

“You're not going to tell me which one you expect, are you?” Her hand clutched the key card. Her motions betrayed her uncertainty. Back away or keep going? She knew her answer. “Is this as threatening as you like to be...or should I be worried about more if something happens?”

“Nothing worse unless I see a real threat.”

Linda turned away and slid her card through the card reader. She held the card over the keypad to hide her PIN as she typed it with her left hand. The elevator doors silently slid open and she walked in. Michael was making this all about trust and being left alone save for what he explicitly agreed to. Fine. He was probably used to this with his friends until he could fully trust them.

He followed, keeping a slight distance from her as she pushed the button for another floor. She noted it was politeness, not fear, he was putting most of his effort into seeming casual.

“I had to have part of the floor cleared by security for safety. More for yours than for others.”

A short ride and a short walk later, she was talking to a technician while he stood next to the machine. He and his coworkers weren't as casual about things as she was, nor did they assume opportunity meant urgency. No one approached him. No one tried to talk to him. Most of the technicians were behind the thick glass that separated their room from the MRI's personal one. After a long, seemingly civil discussion, one left for the other room and the others focused on their computers and ignored Michael, save for casual chatter he couldn't hear through the glass.

Linda approached Michael. She didn't seem bothered by the long conversation. “We're ready to start, just sit down on the table and I'll check your eyes before I leave the room while the scan is in progress.”

Everything was simple. The light of the penlight wasn't nearly bright enough to bother him. There was nothing more than a tiny popped capillary, a benign and common anomaly. She worried if he was claustrophobic. At least she wasn't offended when he laughed at her over it. It was only a little over an hour, but the time sitting still seemed exponentially longer. Both tests were just a narrow table that slid through a large tube with something spinning within. The MRI was the most annoying, having to force himself to relax and keep his mind as blank as possible. The first test in it was to scan brain activity while he relaxed, something still foreign to him. The next test was almost as patronizing, full of annoyance and distractions. It was meant to test stress, but what was chosen to simulate work was juvenile and simple equations on a screen—far too easy to solve without a challenge. The CT test was easier. So long as he held still, he could let his worries and fear percolate and slowly dissolve into a stew of trepidation and apprehension in a solution of guilt. At least he could ignore the doctors and technicians throughout the entire procedure.

It had been years since Jacob had run these tests. There had been several more, and the machines had been crude in comparison to these. Michael hadn't paid much attention to the strange anatomical changes that had been shown on charts and pictures as he had been to worried about being found out by one of the hospital staff. Now he wondered if there was any helpful information, or if it was just damning—not just from Linda claiming he was no longer human and no longer deserved to be treated as one, but if they proved there would never be a cure. Could he convince her that her focus should be on what was in his head and just sum up the results as 'confusing'? How detrimental would that be? Would that just make her eager to to use him to boost her fame and reputation or just toss him away in Bellevue as a lost cause?

Unlike with the MRI, he easily lost track of time. He couldn't wait to leave the MRI, but he was surprised when the CT had finished. Still, Linda and the technician who assisted her gave him ample time to recuperate from the experience before they entered the room to talk to him.

This technician was different, one of the gawkers and not the one who ran the team. He seemed to just hang back, barely paying attention to what Linda said to Michael as she gestured for Michael to step off the table.

For the first time, Michael noted she made an effort not to touch him, save for an attempt to lead him here by the hand. Her words had been kind. She kept her word and his door open. She not only provided blood, but insisted he have as much as he comfortably needed. She knew of his threat. He made a note to test who she was trying to appease when they were alone.

“We're done. The tests should be on my desk within a few hours. I'm obliged to ask you if you have any questions or want anything instead of going back to you're room.”

“You're only going to be looking for what you mentioned, correct?” If he was going to be given the option to have someone admit they had an ulterior motive, he was going to take it.

“Unless we see a medical emergency, only those. And medical oddities don't qualify, I assure you. We have diplomatic relations with alien races who have armies that span solar systems. None of us would be alive if we judged patients on physiology just because it was odd. None of us can legally share that information without your permission, either, save for with your insurance. Hector wouldn't let them put up a fight about anything trivial.”

Michael nodded, not wanting to reveal how much of a relief her answer was.

“Anything else?” Linda asked, glancing sideways at the technician for a second.

The technician continued to ignore her and watched Michael, who couldn't tell what the man's intent could be. The only overt hint the technician gave out was that he was eager about something. He was young, still in early college probably.

“If possible, I'd like to keep the results of all the tests you can give me before I leave, even if it's not with Max. And your promise not to judge on 'oddities' in writing.”

“Would you be interested in asking a question for him? He insisted; I'm sorry,” Linda appologized, nodding in the direction of he young technician.

“If it's not too personal,” Michael answered. He didn't want to create a bad reputation among any of the hospital staff who'd be supplying blood to him, and he wanted every chance to be kicked out of the mental hospital and not worth bothering with. It was best to hear what the novice wanted before being offended by him.

“How do you keep from stabbing yourself a lot with those?” The technician point at his own lips.

“It's the angle. Vampire bats don't bite themselves either. In fact, their lower teeth sharpen their fangs.”

The technician nodded, apparently satisfied and obviously thinking of his question the equivalent of 'that's a neat trick'.

Then it was back to the hallway. Back to the elevator. Back to his room. Back to tedium and fear of being watched.

He didn't want to ask anyone here to solve his problem. They might take it as a symptom of something or grow concerned about the wrong thing. He didn't want to be placated with music or the stuffed animal on the bed or anything else treated so childishly. He was just bored. Bored and anxious.

Michael looked at the door, then stared past the door, and mulled over a thought in his head, something he had meant to think long and hard about for a while now. Despite being led around like a dog and given piles of papers and an entire box to unpack, he'd been told more than once that he wasn't trapped in this insulting playpen.

He grabbed the empty thermos and walked out the door.

He kept walking.

He walked past Maia and set the thermos on her desk quietly without so much as turning to her. He kept walking.

He expected something patronizing. 'Put on a sweater', 'Be back in time for something', or 'Don't get dirty'.

“Be careful. The hospital parking lot can be busy at night.”

Good enough

 

* * *

 

The time seemed too distant now, as if it were some ancient era still being dug up among bones and pottery. But it wasn't so long ago at all. America was fiddling with more governments that were not its own—this time his home country he'd just moved from a few years ago. The USSR was collapsing under its own totalitarian weight while Palestine and Israel had signed for peace. So many advances ins science were happening. The internet had just gone worldwide, a giant space telescope was hovering over the everyone, and the field of genetics was just starting to be applied everywhere.

Back then, he had still been considered young, not even an official M.D. yet. Martine had just barely noticed him. All she wanted was someone to walk her home in the dark. That was the first time he smelled it. Dawn.

He never thought a change in the time of day like that could have it's own scent, but it was wonderful to him. He told her. It was the first thing he told her since agreeing to help her and introducing himself. He was still learning English from Max, so his words were stilted and awkward, some even mispronounced. She laughed. It was the first time he had ever heard her laugh. He didn't understand why until she explained, but he liked to hear her laugh.

Now there was no laughter and the smell of dawn was different. He could practically hear the smog now. He couldn't escape the cacophony of traffic unless he was asleep—when other noises haunted him.

It was time to go back. Perhaps there was hope the hospital would ward off nightmares for one night. Perhaps that was too much to ask from the universe.

 

* * *

 

The doors to the Brooklyn Institute for Mental Health were still unlocked when Michael returned.

“Hey you can't--” Maia yelled, her head shooting up from her desk. “Oh...it's just you.” He head slammed back down on her folded arms, which rested on the desk. She was fast asleep before he passed her desk.

Linda was waiting for him by his door. “Are you okay? Did you want anything?” she asked. “I have to ask; it's my job.”

“I understand,” Michael said. There were stupid rules when he was a medical doctor. At least she acknowledged they could drive someone up the wall or sound insulting. “No. The sun is coming up.”

“I have the papers to sign if you want to go ahead with the polysomnograph. I called Max and told him everything about it that I told you. If anything goes wrong or is different, he'll sue this place into rubble. You don't have to sign anything if you've changed your mind by now.”

“So long as you can address whatever you find.” The nightmares were all he knew about that happened to his body while he slept. Sometimes bats hibernated. Sometimes they decided to be awake and social during the day. So long as they vaguely resembled human, no one would judge him otherwise.

Linda continued as he took the clipboard and pen. “There's a new thermos on your nightstand. It's still warm, in case you have a preference. I'd like you to drink it before we start; it has a half dose of melatonin in it. That should help you get to sleep.” She held up her hands, as if afraid or accused of something. “It's a natural sleep aid, it's not a sedative.”

Michael grabbed one of her hands and shook it as if she had offered it. She just smiled and took back her clipboard as he handed it to her. No fear. No disgust. Just surprise and amiability. “I'll come in after about five minutes and help you. You might want to change into the pajamas left on your bed” She leaned close. “Leave your underwear on no matter what, it's required for the test—plus there's a camera involved,” she whispered.

Michael nodded and entered his room.

At first he wanted to savor his guaranteed privacy. He just wanted to enjoy knowing he'd never be watched or checked on like a lab rat again.

But his time was limited. And of all the times to be watched, it was the rare times he'd be upset about a lack of modesty. If he didn't want to be treated as a child, he'd have to save himself from being walked in on while changing and being asked if he needed help or if he didn't like the clothes.

He decided to change first. If his time ran out, he'd rather be seen drinking than dressing. Linda had impeccable timing. He was finishing the blood in the thermos when she walked in with the machine, which was mostly wires and a few straps.

“I'm ready,” he said, beating her to the chase.

“We rarely ask this, but you're an experienced MD, would you like to attach most of this yourself?”

“Yes,” he said, taking the small device, careful to preserve all the delicate strands. “With instructions.”

The machine wasn't much more than a little over a dozen sensors for various movements, heat, and electric activity in his body; nearly all of them were to be held on with tape she had brought. She let him strap the box that recorded data from all the sensors to his chest, the straps themselves were used to monitor breathing and twisting as well as to hold the machine recording eveything onto his chest. His face was nearly covered in sensors, and his shirt had to be held open for the EKG so he was allowed to go without it, and even one of his finders was attached to a puse oximeter.

“I'm going to leave so you can take these last two and pull them through your briefs and tape them to your thighs. They don't stay overnight well without going through your underwear. They monitor leg movement, which can tell us about spasms, restless leg syndrome, tossing and turning, and even nightmares. When you're done, turn that camera on the nightstand on. It'll automatically switch to night vision when someone comes in the turn out the lights for you.”

She didn't ask if he was comfortable or if he would be too squeamish to follow those instructions. She just left, giving him the respect of treating him like an adult—or at least not doing the equivalent of poking him every minute with her words.

Taking comfort in her act of just walking away, he fastened the last of the sensors and lay down, trying to find a position where the box wouldn't be too distracting.

He hadn't realized how heavy his eyelids had become and how painful it was to keep them open. The melatonin was kicking in. He pulled up the blankets and hit the button on the camera. For once was happy how quickly someone had come to check on him.

He waited, fighting sleep.

He couldn't hear anyone. He pulled the stuffed toy close and settled it under his arm. If anyone asked, he'd just say he couldn't remember. Their livelihoods rested on keeping his secret.

It was an odd thought, but it was a pleasant one to drift off to sleep to.

  


 




 


	6. Chapter 6

“Michael?”

Michael's eyes shot open, but upon seeing Linda standing over him in concern, memories rushed to calm his senses. He had other people to worry about now.

He sat up and groaned.

“Would you like help with those?” She pointed to his forehead.

“No.” He shifted away from her hand before reaching up and prying the tape off.

“Your friends are here. They brought some clothes for you to change into.” She held up a paper bag before setting it down and moving to the other side of the bed to turn the machine off. “Did you want anything before I give you some privacy?”

“No, thank you.”

“Alright. Just leave the polysomnograph on the night stand and the clothes on the bed, then. I'll be in the waiting room talking to Hector in the front. Max wanted to talk in private ; he'll be in here in about ten minutes. Hold still.” She disconnected the monitor connected to his finger before finally leaving the room.

Michael waited until she was out the door before continuing to remove the tape and sensors from his face. Once again, he scooted over to that semi-hidden spot behind the bed to change. He was in no hurry to meet Max, but someone else might have been in a hurry to have him leave. He hiked up his pants as far up much as possible, before removing the sensors and wires from under his briefs with one hand and yanking up his clothes with the other. One thing about Max was that he made no arraignments of immodesty or indecency no matter what Michael preferred to wear. Still, Michael was glad that not even Max was around as he pulled the wires through the legs of his underwear so that he could fully remove the contraption and finish dressing.

Max wandered in, slow and tentative to be polite, while Michael was brushing his teeth at the sink. “Hey.”

No anger. No hatred. No resentment. No pity. Caution. It would have been a normal greeting if he hadn't been worried he'd scare Michael by it.

Michael froze, unsure of what to do. A long string of foamy saliva formed before he found he could do more than breathe.

“Are you okay?” Worry.

The thought that Max was worried about him startled Michael from his frozen position.

Pretending not to be embarrassed, Michael rushed to regain some dignity. Thick saliva was threatening to fall onto the clean counter, his shirt was tucked in, but hung around his hips to keep clean, his hair was matted from sleep, his leftover clothes were on the floor, and the stuffed toy was still on the unmade bed. He set the brush away while wiping his face, nearly knocking over the brush and wash cloth as he set them aside so fast and clumsily in his panic to cover himself up. “I'm sorry; I didn't know what to say. I'm just--”

“Michael, come here.” It was an order. It was a friendly one, but still an order. He wasn't against taking advantage of Michael's devotion. Not when it meant keeping their friendship. He didn't mind Michael's new reclusiveness or how outstanding his stubborn streak had become. Michael had always refused to hurt his friends before and from what Linda had told him, he was probably more terrified of doing it now. He didn't hide this from Michael either, or the fact that he could never bring himself to give an order that he felt would hurt is friend; though Michael probably got the wrong message when he was fired. Michael seemed worried, as if he'd get the same treatment, yet approached Max as he buttoned his shirt.

“Max, I--” Michael cut himself off, biting his lip to try to prompt himself to say something. There was nothing left to say anymore. There was nothing more he could do. He bit his lip harder in an attempt to fight off the inevitable for a few more moments for clarity and poise. Max would never think of him the same way he did before he was arrested, but he didn't want to fight the pain anymore. Every bit of his strength crumbled like a collapsing building, held up by a single beam of fear.

He knees didn't work. It was only due to Max's good graces that he wasn't a pathetic, curled up mess on the floor.

His hands dug deep into Max's shirt in desperation, not for support but because he wanted to prolong the time before finality of his abandonment.

His mind didn't work. It couldn't hold back the emotions, which spilled out in an onslaught offensively onto his friend’s shoulder.

He couldn't stop any of it. He had wanted so badly to end everything between him and Max, to fade away like an ugly stain on an ignored piece of furniture. He never wanted things to come to this. He never wanted Max to see him this way, to give Max another layer of disgust towards him. Yet, as the slime and filth that had convinced him that everyone wanted him to drown and be washed away, something he'd never thought he'd encounter again began to surface: hope.

Max was willing to hold him and now he could hear his friend trying to soothe the last puddles of self-inflicted damnation away. He could feel Max's thick arms pressing tightly against his back. There was hope.

The tears subsided and Michael felt worse than before. Max's arms loosened and Michael pulled free. “I'm sorry,” he managed to whisper, having no idea what else to do. He hated relying on hope.

Max shook his head. “It's okay. If you really need, I forgive you. You still did a lot less damage than you think. Do you want to talk, or are you ready to head over to the hotel? We've got a single room, but you've got you're own bed. Hector wants to upgrade to a suite so you can have your own room when we know you're okay around windows.”

“I don't want to be a burden,” Michael said, sitting on the bed. He contemplated buttoning his sleeve cuffs. He figured any way to appear less like the unkempt mess he was at Horizon the better inf ront of Max. “I couldn't stand doing that to you back at Horizon. I'm not going to do it to you now. Everything I did back there was You wouldn't come after me once I finally stopped hurting you and the company.”

“Your lawyer says she can still make a case neither crime was entirely your fault.” Max said, waiting for Michael's expression to change. He didn't like how long the wait was becoming. “You don't have to worry about being any trouble. You're not that high maintenance, despite what you think.”

“'I'm sorry, but it isn't like that. I'm not a stupid animal or a mindless monster. I did it all on my own and I chose to do it. I knew I could already cure the lizard instantly—there's an enzyme in my blood and...saliva that could fix him far better and would require far less struggle than all the trouble I stirred up. I needed an excuse, anything that lent itself to a crime that made sense. I wanted the police to end things, but I didn't want them to think you had any involvement. I wanted to wash your hands of me for you. I couldn't stand you thinking of me as someone who took away something you loved or some monster that ate it away from the inside. Of all the things you'd see me as, I preferred the label of criminal. It doesn’t matter now, though. Being here labels me as too unstable for any choice of my own.”

“What about after that?” Max asked, cautiously. Maybe Michael should stay here another day or two more. Max wanted to help, but he was thinking whatever happened had caused his friend to need something beyond his expertise. He knew the real answer, but he didn't know Michael's answer.

“I didn't intend for it. But it had to be my fault. I thought after all these years I could control myself, especially with what you provided for me. It felt just like the first time I ever attacked someone, and they trusted me completely, just like you. I couldn't be near you; I was still too dangerous and too weak.”

Max sighed, finally letting out the tension of trying to keep his worry from Michael. He had thought Michael was just quiet, like he usually was when studying, and just too shy to meet the other scientists after his presence was revealed. All this time Michael had been begging for forgiveness or wanting to make up for hurting someone just by sticking around and being silent. Now, Max realized it he should be the one asking forgiveness. He hadn't even tried to talk to his friend about the first fight with Spider-Man or that a child was creating more and more weapons, all meant to hurt Michael specifically, and was making Horizon his second home because of it. He should have learned why Michael thought grave robbing was the best idea instead of asking for help and discovered what Michael was truly intent on. He should have noticed. He should have asked. He should have done something—anything. He didn't. Ever. “It wasn't you. I've got copies of the surveillance tape. You were right to say he was still The Lizard inside; he took advantage of me and Spider-Man fighting about you. I promise, what happened was all him and Spider-Man after that, not you. Except the window.”

“That is...new.” That was all Michael could think to say. The chunk of calcified guilt was shaking loose, tugging painfully as it slowly began to lose its hold on his mind. Without it, there wasn't much knowledge to cling to. “But it can't just have been that. I'm just too--”

“No.” Max had never told Michael what to do in this way. His orders were always purely to help Michael and only that—to tell him to take a break, get something to eat, to rest, to quit worrying about his relationship, that he'd become a full M.D. someday... He always wished he had never needed to talk to Michael that way and he could just treat the man like a coworker or a friend. “You're going to stop thinking that way. It's not good for you. And it's not what happened. You're fine. You've been fine since we met in the free clinic. You haven’t hurt me and I'm not going to let you no matter what. Hector's smart; can defend himself. You're not that high maintenance, either. I'd rather do you a few favors than lose you, Michael. And no more running away. If you ever start thinking about that again, talk to me. Or Linda. Or one of your friends I haven’t met yet. Understand?”

It wasn't going to be as helpful as an apology and explaining he wasn't as good of a friend as Michael thought of him and saying he should be the one asking for forgiveness instead. But Michael wasn't going to accept any of that right now. This would have to do for now.

Michael was silent.

Max sighed. “You can tell the judge what you think. That's fine. It'll probably help our case. But no more trying to disappear and you're listening to me and not Spider-Man after this. We'll work on everything else. Slowly. Let's go. We need to get you settled in your own room before the doctor calls or your lawyer comes.”

“I don't want to be here any longer. Thank you.” Michael stood up and waited for permission to follow his friend and never look back at this place.

“Come on,” Max said, gesturing to the door with his thumb. “Just don't go thinking this is any sort of problem for us. Hector planned for you to be at the hotel when he started this.”

The two left the room, with the borrowed clothes on the floor and stuffed toy where anyone could see itNeither wanted to see the room again in their lifetime.

Linda and Hector were standing at the front, making Maia anxious purely by their presences .

She let out a silent sigh of relief as the two became distracted when they saw Max with Michael closely following behind. Linda smiled. Hector crossed his arms in what he intended to be a friendly matter.

“Don't listen to Hector unless it's about legal stuff,” Max whispered to Michael, just before they met the others.

“Are you ready?” Hector asked, slightly impatient, to Michael once he approached.

“I need to talk you all three of you, first,” Linda interjected while writing on her clipboard. “It won't take long.” She kept writing, she gestured to the waiting room.

“I'm very sorry I'm going to have to do this, but I'm legally forced to. I've already told Hector, but I want Michael under watch for the next 2 days. No intense scrutiny, but I want someone in the same room or in one next to his if he's doing something private. I want it clear from both of you that you're doing all of this an a favor to a colleague and friend, not as some chore. Last, here's my letter to the hospital to pick up blood for him every few days, as well as a few things to handle it. I also want him to regularly on melatonin for a week to get back to a regular circadian rhythm for sleep. It may be embarrassing, but he doesn't need anything larger than a children's dosage. I'll have my diagnosis later tonight and Maia can hand Michael the results of some of the tests. I'll have more available tomorrow. These are only for Michael unless he feels confident in sharing the information.”

She tore off the paper she was writing and handed it to Hector while turning her attention to Max. “If it's okay, I'd like to talk to Mr. Modell for a minute in private.”

Hector took hold of Michael's arm and led him towards the door while Linda and Max walked into the room Michael had first met her in. As the door closed behind Max, Hector puled Michael close to whisper in his bat-like ear. “Don't screw this up.”

The two waited quietly at front of the door. Michael stood by the desk until Maia finished a phone call and handed him a large envelope containing papers and pictures. Hector impatiently stared at his watch and checked his phone.

Max returned a few mintues later and the three left, none of them noticing Maia waving goodbye.

Max escorted Michael into a car with tinted windows. Hector drove. After a conversation Michael didn't involve himself in, they arrived at the hotel.

Another receptionist who ignored him, another elevator, another hallway leading to another room. Not as white and unlived in, but this place also gave off an air of having all traces of life polished away to flaunt how still and inanimate and dull everything was.

Towels had been taped over the windows with shiny, glittery tape and covered by curtains as a flimsy disguise. Extra pillows and blankets were set neatly on the couch, along with a few books.

“Make yourself at home, Michael,” Max said with a slap on the back.

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

The books on the couch turned out to be law books, to Michael's disappointment. Two were illustrated—on was a comic book—and the third was written for people who barely had a grasp of English or basic concepts in America.

“We can go over the heavier stuff when you’re done with those,” Hector said, oblivious to Michael's feelings of already costing his hosts too much.

Michael looked up, watching the two other men for a single second. Just as he had hoped, his trepidation was merely mistaken for unease while adjusting back to 'the real world'. In truth, he didn't want to admit he already missed his own room at the hospital. He missed the printouts meant for his own academic level and interests. He missed having a real bed for himself. He missed his privacy and knowing when he was being watched—especially knowing it was only for a fleeting moment. He missed being able to dictate his own modesty where he lived and was expected to relax.

Michael sat down on the couch and threw his hands through his hair. “I'm sorry, I'm not quite sure what to do.”

“That's fine,” Max said, sitting on the bed. He began taking off his shoes, not looking at Michael to show he trusted his friend wasn't going anywhere or about to do anything dangerous.

Hector, however, had a different view of the situation. “You're going to have to make a big decision about the trial tonight, after Linda calls.”

Max shook his head. Scientists tried to fix things by putting them back together, better than new if possible. Lawyers tried to fix things by making the situation go away entirely while trying to gain something from someone in the process.

“Leave him alone, he's had a busy day yesterday,” Max said, taking off his other shoe.

“We could be here for over a month if we keep treating him like a scared little kid,” Hector rebutted.

'Great,' Micheal thought 'Not only am I already a nuisance, but they already wish I wasn't around.'

While Michael started to wish he could make himself invisible, Max noticed how uncomfortable he was becoming. That reaction was exactly what had started this mess in the first place. “Michael's not going to be in any condition to decide if you keep bothering him,” Max said, nodding at Michael and hoping Michael remembered to ignore Hector. “And there's no point in pressuring him or trying to help him until Linda calls.”

“So what do you think we should do now?” Hector asked, turning his back to Michael. He wasn't used to caring about people by not caring about them. Helping Michael relax wasn't his job, and Max didn't seem to be doing anything else. If that was how it was supposed to work, he'd rather leave the task up to Max entirely and handle dinner.

“I say we wait,” Max said, stretching out on the bed. “I've got to catch up on some work for Horizon and hope no one blows up anything important while I'm not there. I've got to pick up blood from the hospital after Linda calls and I don't want to be too tired.”

Hector looked at Michael, just to make sure he was still there. Without constant complaints about him, it was hard to tell.

Michael had moved to the floor and was removing his own shoes—not really his own for they were on loan from the hospital.

Although quiet to the point of unnerving sometimes, Hector didn't see what the fuss was about. While having a vampire at Horizon didn't gel with public opinion, the idea of Michael dragging a super-powered and super-armored giant creature that murdered the family of it's former human form into a lab with no locked doors had been the frightening part. Hector wasn't a fan of having a child hanging around the dangerous experiments at Horizon either, and look where that ended up. Although, that could be attributed more to Spider-Man...possibly.

Hector hadn't been oblivious to Michael's presence like the other scientists at Horizon. He had been responsible for keeping records of paying Michael under the table and saving his paychecks when he refused to take them, since he couldn’t cash them or use the money by legitimate means. Hector had only seen the first fight from the footage captured on security cameras, but he'd been present for the last fight between Michael and Spider-Man. To him. Spider-Man and the child were the main cause of the event, even without taking into account the threats that drove Michael to illegal actions and why.

Watching Michael hesitantly open and examine one of the books, Hector realized he had a much bigger and more immediate concern than Michael's choice about how to proceed with the trials over his misdemeanors and Sajani's counter suit. Spider-Man had a tendency to come through windows and Michael had a tendency to try to escape through them.

Hector did his best to ease over to Max without Michael noticing. “Spider-Man knows our phone numbers, right?”

“Yep,” Max replied, not looking up from his papers. “I made sure he got them before we left. You did what you could so he didn't know our flight number or this hotel, right?”

“I told the airport and the hotel that if anyone asked about us at all, not to give out information including whether we were here, even to an Avenger or they'd have a huge lawsuit on their hands.”

“Sounds like the only thing else we can do is demand a heck of a lot more if he breaks in like usual. Unless you want to hire a super villain.”

They both noticed Michael turn to them for a second and stare before uncomfortably shrugging off what he'd heard of the last sentence.

The obvious answer was a very silent 'no.'

Now the only things left to do were to wait, relax, and hope. Hector was only skilled at two of those. Michael, only one.

 

* * *

 

Hector's phone rang late in the afternoon.

“Hello? Yeah, just a sec...” He held the phone against his hip and whispered to Max. “It's...business.”

The two huddled into a corner, both keeping a peripheral watch on Michael, who seemed to ignore them completely. Either he trusted their lie or he felt they had put up some physical barrier of solid legality to protect him.

“Alright, I'm listening,” Hector said. He didn't want to give anything away, including that they had picked up Michael.

“The hotel receptionist wasn't very helpful and the manager was really nasty.”

“You're telling me you're stalking the other client's lawyer?” Hector asked, his tone as flat and dull as a pane of glass, but nowhere near as transparent.

“Yeah, but—No, I mean--”

“I'm married,” Hector said, this time letting himself add a bit of smug to his voice. “I brought my husband on this trip. Why do you think I don't want to give you any information about the room I'm staying in?”

Max couldn't help but chuckle at the words as he put his hand on his husband’s shoulder, half out of humor and half out of wishing Spider-Man could see him playing along.

“We gave you both of our phone numbers so you could call like a normal person,” Hjector said.

“You guys are no fun, you know that right?”

“I'm a lawyer. I'm not paid to be fun for anyone, including myself,” Hector scolded.

“Hey, I know a great lawyer who's tons of fun,” Spider-Man shot back.

“Did you win?” Hector asked.

“I can be in New York tomorrow. Can you schedule a meeting for me to talk to Morbius then?”

“If he's available and agrees, I can reserve a place. But I'm charging you for going over time.”

“Fine. Call this number if you can arrange it.”

“It's is a private number,” Hector complained. He was not going to bother with a searchlight or symbol.

“I'll call you.”

Hector hung up, tired of the conversation. He wasn't going to be told how to do his job by someone who didn't follow the law. Especially when it had taken Hector six months to realize he'd blatantly ignored the law. While wearing pajamas. “So, uh Michael...”

“I heard,” he said, not looking up from his book.

Hector suddenly realized why Michael sent chills down the spines of other people. All the hints, all the subtle signs...were they lies or were they just courtesy? Or was he just like this when he wasn’t or didn't want to be involved?

“We're buying him earplugs when we upgrade to a suite.”

Max doubted it would be enough.

 

* * *

 

“Michael, come on over here,” Max cajoled as he opened the boxes of Chinese food. “If you're going to stay with us, you're invited to dinner. And trying to avoid it is no excuse to run off.”

Michael looked up from his reading, confused. He had long since finished the books on law and had borrowed a magazine from Max at the former's suggestion. Realizing he'd been asked to do something out of politeness rather than safety or science, he set the magazine aside and approached the table with a smile.

Max sat down to enjoy his friend's company, while Hector seemed uncomfortable, or at least confused, immediately ruining Michael's good mood. He was disappointed, as it was his first good mood in over a year, yet he felt like he was trespassing.

Thankfully, Hector noticed and decided to repair the damage before it made things difficult in court. “What about him?” Hector asked, doing his best to sound accommodating.

“I'll be going out to get his dinner after we have ours,” Max said, waving his chopsticks before helping himself to the takeout. “Don't give him a hard time about.”

“It doesn't involve needles, does it?” Hector asked, trying to make it clear he was asking out of ignorance and not accusation.

“It comes in bags and it's stored in a cooler or a fridge. Linda wants him to take it in a thermos.”

“That sounds...easy.” Hector said, hoping they were the right words to say. He was at a loss about how to react. All this time and that was an option.

“Easy?” Michael asked. It was never a good sign when people talked about him as if he wasn't there...even when he wasn't. Not for him.

“You didn't tell him?” Hector asked, laughing. Whatever was coming was going to be entertaining. For him, at least.

“Not yet,” Max said, setting down the nearly empty carton. “Michael, I wanted to get you settled first. You're not going to be living at Horizon this time. We're going to rent out an apartment across the hall to ours and get you what you need to get settled this time.”

“I'd honestly be fine with just a closet,” Michael said. He didn't want to offend, but it was a lot to pay back, especially with what he already owed his friend.

“You're an employee, not a mop. You're going to live like a normal person,” Hector said dismissively between bites.

“Think of it as a wedding present to us,” Max said, patting Michael on the back. “No matter what, you've just gotten out of prison and two complicated trials. Even with insurance handling everything, a landlord isn't going to give you priority as a potential tenant. You just settle in and then you can get to work on some patents I know you've been working on. It'd give Hector a headache sorting through everything that comes with the good press, but they could save billions and lead to at least a dozen other advances. It's not perfect, but isn't that close to what you've always wanted?”

“It'd make Ms. Jaffrey turn all shades of red, too,” Hector added.

Michael didn't know what to say. He just wanted to enjoy being part of a conversation that was free of accusations or any topics of disasters. Max's phone interrupted him before he could panic about what to say.

“It's for you,” Max said, handing the phone to Michael.

Michael nodded and walked to the other side of the room before answering.

“This is Linda Stevens; am I speaking to Michael?”

“Yes. I take it you don't call if there's good news.”

“It's all relative, Michael. But we do try to deliver good news as often as we can.”

“Is it terminal?” he asked, cutting off any more explanation.

“Michael, you don't even know what you have!”

“I'm not sure I care.” He meant it. He made sure he meant it. He didn't care if the others were concerned about what he was saying from across the room.

“Without treatment, very likely. It's all manageable with treatment, however, but it'll require a lot of effort on your part.”

“What kind of treatment?”

“Therapy sessions, exercise, relaxation methods, practiced behavior patterns, and keeping up a strong social network. Diaries. I've been told the Medical Tribunal will want to put you on some drugs. I'm sorry, Michael, they went over my head. You should be able to function perfectly normally at Horizon with them. I'll take you off of them immediately if there's a problem”

“Alright...I guess. What do I have?”

“First, I took a look at the CT tests. You have very tiny shards of glass or metal embedded in your skin in three places. Max would know more about proper microsurgery techniques to remove them than I would. Even if you don't notice them consciously, they can affect your mental health and nervous system. Second, I looked over everything, from the interview to the polysomnograph and I can confirm you have Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, along with depression and anxiety. I'd like to meet up and discuss what options you feel would be best to treat these, but if you like, it can wait after the trials.”

“That would be best,” he said. He'd rather it didn't happened at all. He shouldn't be going down this road again, but he often felt the most comfortable slowly exploring the path. Everything would be so much easier and more familiar if he just let this ride out. Everything would have been better if he let had just let the cancer he'd contracted decide his fate for him.

“For now, just try to relax and settle in. Don't let Max or Hector demand too much from you for a few days.”

“I will.” Nothing was too much, as long as Max was happy. Max deserved it for forgiving him after everything that had happened.

“One last thing, Michael. You qualify for taking your case to Mental Health Court. If you do, I can press for your innocence in both cases, but I can't guarantee a verdict.”

“Thank you,” Michael said just before hanging up. He turned to the others and he was surprised—and a little comforted—to see they weren't paying attention to him.

“I don't think he likes me,” Hector told Max. The two were discussing something by the door. “He keeps looking at me like he's scared of me.”

“He's never actually met you, Hector,” Max said, grabbing his hotel and car keys from a nearby small table. “You said two lines at dinner and before that you fired him without saying 'hello'. He doesn't know you.”

“Shouldn't I go, then?” Hector asked. “He's on my insurance.”

“You wouldn't know what questions to ask. Besides, Linda asked to talk to me, specifically.”

Hector sighed, defeated, and handed Max his phone. Somehow he never thought dealing with Michael meant actually dealing with Michael. As much as he had insisted on not treating Michael as a dirty tool to shove behind a door when not in use, that was exactly what Hector wanted: to stow Michael somewhere he wouldn't have to see him until he needed him again.

“I'm right here,” Michael said, having slowly approached the two since he had noticed their conversation.

“Thanks,” Max said, taking his phone from his friend. He was used to how quietly Michael moved and how he preferred to stay, at most, within peripheral vision.

Hector, however, was not used to it at all. While there was no basis to fire Michael over it, he understood why there were so many complaints of 'he's creepy, I can't explain it, though' about him. He tried to move away a few inches as skillfully as Michael had done.

“Don't worry about him, Michael, he's all bark and no bite.”

“I'm a lawyer,” Hector protested. “My bark is my bite.”

“I love you too,” Max said, opening the door. “Play nice.” With a kiss for Hector, he was out the door and gone.

The two men—still strangers—were alone together.

“So...” Hector began. He had turned to the door, hoping Max would return after realizing he had forgotten something and could offer some help. Turning back, he found Michael had vanished from his spot and had moved back to his couch, completely undetected. How in the world did Spider-Man manage to sneak up on this guy when normal people wouldn't keep track of him?

“No, thank you,” Michael said instinctively.

“You didn't even know what I was...stop looking at me like that, please.” For a lawyer, he found himself having no idea how to negotiate with or about Michael. He hoped erasing any clue as to what to do wasn't some sort of superpower Michael had.

Hector also hoped it wasn't a superpower to look the way he did. He knew Michael's face itself had been altered, but Michael's expression was what made being around him so disturbing. He stared at Hector like a beaten dog who had run to his doghouse, refusing to run away entirely, but wanting his own small island of safety while he watched for the humans to turn their attention to something else so he could again participate in his pack.

“Look, it's getting late—for us. How long do I still have to watch you? Because I'm pretty sure we'd both rather you had your own room but I need to know you won't go out any widows...or doors.” Hector slowly approached. Michael didn't seem to care where he was or how close, so long as the couch remained his.

“Tomorrow,” Michael answered, his expression unchanged. “Around 2:30. I'm sorry, I sleep late thanks to that drug she gave me.

“That's nothing to worry about,” Hector said. “I heard you and Max used to sleep in later than that in college.”

“We were studying all night,” Michael muttered, embarrassed. It was his past, but not the past of what he was now. He could barely remember being human. How could Max remember? How could Hector even conceive of such a thing?

“I take it Linda didn't say anything about it?” Hector asked.

Michael shook his head.

“I probably shouldn't have let you take the phone call by the window, then,” Hector said, sitting down on the bed. “Did she say anything about that?”

“She said it was inevitable without treatment. Not in so many words.”

“How bad is treatment?” Hector asked.

“Vague,” Michael answered. “There's drugs, exercise, support form others, relaxation and hobbies, therapy...it sounds just like before except she says it's not terminal with all of those.”

“You don't believe her?” Hector asked.

“I'm not sure I should,”Michael said. “Or if I should bother. Please don't tell Max. I wanted to pay him back--finish projects, at least find a better way to keep myself safe with the artificial plasma before I was going to plan anything else—if there aren't any more...incidents. I'm just not sure about whatever she has planned. If she has anything in mind yet.”

“So... I mean, I'll get the answer later if you don't want to tell me, but what did she say you have?”

“Anxiety. Depression. Post Something Disorder. I'm sorry, I--”

“You're not,” Hector said, cutting him off. He was smiling, hoping he'd get Michael to at least try to imitate it slightly. “You're scared.” Before Michael could respond, Hector continued. “Look, that's fine, but I'm not really the kind of guy you want. I'm not even that kind of lawyer. Max was scared for you after he went to the hospital after The Lizard attacked while you and Spider-Man were fighting. He didn't tell me until months later. I was actually hoping you'd be angry, or confused, or just wanted to relax and enjoy, well, real life. It would be easier to ask you this if you were, but, did she say anything about Mental Health Court?”

“She said I qualify for it,” Michael said, hoping it was the appropriate answer.

“You might want to opt for that,” Hector said. “You'd have to enter a guilty plea, but that doesn’t mean you can't be found innocent. You wouldn't go to jail—the hospital—to serve your sentence, you'd go back to work, but you'd have to serve community service or take therapy sessions for a while instead. You can choose to have a private trial and Ms Jaffrey wouldn't be there.”

“I won't be sent back to the hospital?” Michael asked.

“Only for therapy sessions here. You can schedule her to come to Horizon or your apartment or a nearby office,” Hector said. “Just go to them and work with her. She's all you have until more people are trained. She might let you skip the rest of the sessions until you're in San Francisco if you talk to her, I'll bet”

“Permanently?”

Finally, Hector had a plea he could understand. It was a straightforward question and it recognized his skills. However... “No. But I can keep anyone else from sending you there. Last I heard, she'd only ask you to stay if you tried to go through a window again. Or ran off after another incident or before the trials.”

“Can I have some time to think about it?” Michael asked.

“I'll need to know tomorrow night,” Hector answered. This question fit his expertise and conversational skills perfectly. “I've got everything set up for your defense lawyer no matter which you choose. I'm not that great at saying anything back, but if you still want to talk, just tell me.”

Michael nodded. It all depended on him not making the same mistake twice.

 

* * *

 

Max arrived to find Micheal and Hector watching a comedy version of late night news. Hector was barely engaged in the show, keeping a closer eye on Michael's expression while giving him a wide berth of personal space. Before Max could announce he was home, Hector began explaining a joke made by the announcer to Michael.

“Any progress?” Max asked.

Hector jerked his thumb in Max's direction ad Michael shook his head at the gesture. “We talked, but he still has to think about everything. We're catching up on things before he gets to work on some notes so she can go over them in the morning.”

Michael turned back to the TV while keeping a sideways glance at Max when he could spare it.

“I'm going to set everything up in the bathroom. I can explain it all during the ads if you want, Michael.”

Michael's response was a nod in Max's direction and a shadow of a smile. He just wanted to enjoy his time thinking about how he had ruined things and to find a way not to ruin fixing those things. Sadly, the time didn't last long. Max and Hector retired to bed after the show had ended. They had left Michael with a pen and paper, a laptop, and there were enough blood-filled thermoses for the night and the next in the bathroom.

The answer for blood was much more permanent than he expected. Both he and Max had permission to collect blood with proof of his prescription provided by Hector's insurance. Once they traveled back to California, blood would be shipped to Michael's apartment. The hospital grade blood warmer wasn't too expensive and took less than an hour to fill six thermoses, all of which could keep blood hot for twenty-four hours each.

His pills were left in a shopping bag that hung on the arm rest of the couch. There were more of them than he expected. There was melatonin to get to sleep. There were pills called an SSRI for his depression. There were anti-anxiety pills to make it easier for him to get along with Max and to make it easier to transition into a real work environment. There was an anti-psychotic with a note from Linda wrapped about the bottle. The note explained him not to worry as 'anti-psychotic' was just an older term for a tranquilizer. The note wasn't as encouraging as he was sure he hoped it was meant to be. There were so many bottles, each with their own doses and times to keep up with. Of all the things he had ever tried to run and hide from as an outcast, he never thought tiny pebbles of strange chemicals would be one of them. Now, however, running away was almost an overwhelmingly good idea.

This time it wasn't the guilt over repaying his friend that kept him where he was. It wasn't fear of his foe being somewhere nearby and looking for his location. It wasn't wasn't even wanting Hector's help to keep from ever having to fear such a thing from Spider-Man again. He stayed because no mater how much he wanted to run away, he could never own up to how embarrassing it would be when it was found out he ran away from a few bottles of pills. He couldn't hide forever and whenever found him would ask why about the news of his sudden departure.

Michael's attention was torn form his work when he noticed a slight change in the lighting of the room. He froze as he looked to the covered windows and saw something—a shadow, a shape, someone—moving past. He didn't need to look toward Max and Hector, who were fast asleep. Michael grabbed the laptop purely out of instinct and dashed to the only hiding place he could find.

He found himself cowering behind the bathroom door, contemplating opening it enough to peek out at the windows. Closing his eyes, he realized just how alone he was, not just at that moment, but ever since he'd been invited to be free of the hospital. There, everything he'd been given was his, down to the stuffed animal. All that was expected of him was civility; compliance and courtesy were considered bonuses. In fact, he would go wherever he wanted, so long as he stayed out of trouble, and they'd defend him if he was the victim in a situation. Here, the only thing that was his was a temporary tiny patch of territory on the couch and the materials and ingredients to concoctions to keep him in a state of normalty redefined by everyone else. Even those might not truly be his. He was trespassing on cold tile in a bathroom of all places, clutching a laptop full of personal information that belonged to his friend and someone whom he still considered a stranger, right next to the cheap instruments of a scheme of how to hide what Max had once protested he should never be ashamed of again.

Looking around, he realized exactly what he wanted. No one had truly asked him that since he had left Monster Metropolis to work for A.R.M.O.R. years ago. Since then it had all been rhetorical orders or ultimatums, most of which offered incarceration or death as one of the two options. Now, he was determined to change that. Hiding here, Michael realized why he always had such a strong urge to leave most of the time. The fear of pain; of becoming not just less than human, but barely befitting a science experiment; of being locked away; of succumbing permanently to the black outs of his unnatural hunger were horrible. Yet, under every single one of those was also the knowledge that it would all be just like right now—no choice, no voice, no needs beyond the sanguine liquid that kept him lucid. He missed the rotten floors, the vermin, the leaking roofs, the odd smells, and the danger of tetanus because there he could tell himself whatever he wanted while alone. He could move in the dark to somewhere new and the only thing holding him back was time and his own poor sense of direction. He could eavesdrop on music or enjoy the sights and smells of the country or read whatever he managed to find or steal or borrow. Sometimes he even managed to pilfer a few hours of television on looted money or hijacked signals. His choices were limited, and the amount of people he could tell or show them to were even more limited, but they were his choices, and they were real choices, and they were only restricted by reality not demands. That was what he wanted back, just without the soggy attics full of lice and roaches and no more ideas that would drive him into hiding like this. That was what he wanted, and if he wasn't going to get it from all this trouble, running away would be better, not matter how much it hurt Max—at least this time Max would truly understand his intentions.

Max and Hector found him on the floor early in the morning, clutching the laptop. Neither said anything about. Hector just asked if he saved whatever files he had worked on during the night and Max insisted Michael be moved to the couch and asked if he remembered to take his prescriptions.

Neither knew how much Michael was enjoying his first taste of true freedom in a long time. They didn't have to know. It would spoil it anyway if he told them. He just let Max set him down on the couch and went back to sleep.

He was just being treated as weird, like everyone else. He chose where to be weird. He chose when to be weird. He chose how to be weird. In the end, he wasn't any weirder than anyone else.

 

* * *

 

“Stop that!” Hector scolded, grabbing Michael's bare wrist. The dress shirt they had bought for Michael didn't fully cover his long arms. “Here,” Hector handed Michael his jacket, which had the same problem. So much for buying cheap, generic clothing. At least the pants fit properly. “He'd better not see you doing that. Hold still.” He turned Michael to face him and flipped up Michael's collar.

“See what?” Michael whispered.

“Don't stare at the windows,” Hector whispered back. He slid a tie around Michael's neck and returned to his normal voice. “If he knows you're scared, he's going to think he's in control. We want him to buckle instead. All you have to do is tell him whether or not you accept whatever he's offering and tell him what you'd rather have instead if you don't.”

“What do I ask for?” Michael asked, moving his hair t from getting caught in the tie as Hecotr tightened it.

“Anything you want that can go on a contract. Just don't let him get to you or he'll be calling the shots. He can't do anything to you. He can't get you fired, that's extortion. He can't send you back to jail, that's illegal and the state won't comply while your trial is pending. He can't have you sent back to the hospital, Linda has final say. He can't claim to take away your rights without bringing himself into question. He's going to try and riles you up. Let me do the talking if he does.”

“I take it fucking off can't be put into writing?” Michael asked. It was just him and Hector, the man who had insisted he'd be fired before learning of any real transgressions.

“Aim for something that can be taken literally,” Hector said, brushing invisible lint off Michael's jacket.

Hector held the door to the conference room open. There wee no more chances for excuses. This had to happen. It was going to happen.

Michael heaved a heavy sigh and forced himself into the conference room. He took a seat as Hector opened the window for Spider-Man, who was waiting outside and hanging on one of his lines of webbing.

“Someone's in a bad mood,” Spider-Man quipped.as he sat down.

“11 broken bones, 13 hours recovering from body-wide melanoma, months of harassment and attempted extortion, police brutality, and violations of Amendments 4 through 6” Hector announced before Michael could reply.

“Are you sure that's all of it?” Spider-Man asked. He was enjoying himself.

“Was anyone killed while you were busy doing all of that?” Michael asked. He was careful not to raise his voice. He did his best not to be his usual depressing, sardonic, self. He tried his hardest to zone out until he could leave. The last part wasn't working.

“Wait, what?” Spider-Man asked. He'd lost control of the conversation. Someone else had taken the wheel.

“If—no, I'm going to have my lawyer ask this.” Michael grabbed a piece of blank paper that had been provided on the table. He jotted down his statement, taking his time in case it could get under Spider-Man's skin, and then handed the paper to Hector. The luxury of a lawyer was new. He never had someone to speak for him, to chase away vigilantes or angry mobs before. Not even Jennifer or her friend had done that for him.

“You're entirely responsible for any injuries or deaths by The Lizard's actions while you were away. He's right. What was he death count?”

“Uh... none,” Spider-Man admitted. “A bunch of injuries, though.”

“I know, I had to go to the hospital,” Hector said. “Guess how many injuries occurred thanks to Michael when you didn't interfere?”

“Uh, lots?” Spider-Man guessed. “Because he's a vampire?”

“Zero until you showed up,” Max said, tossing the paper back to Michael. “Around negative seventeen million is you take into considereation that he was a crucial help in developing the Spider-Island vaccine-- around negative 5-and-a-half million is you only count him as contributing a third of the of the work.”

“Yeah, but everyone was in danger when he freaked out once,” Spider-Man protested. It was obvious he was grinning under his mask as Michael winced at the reminder.

“Max had an epipen and a taser. He could also have sealed off all the doors in the building if he wanted. He had several alarms set in place, all of which you disabled before the fight.”

“But I still saved him,” Spider-Man protested.

“Not really. You broke a wall and caused several hundred dollars in damage, encouraged a child to use weapons that were made purely to inflict pain in a crowded area, and violated Michael's right to privacy. But you and Mayor Jameson lost Horizon millions of dollars in reputation and donations, ended power to very important experiments that didn't yet have failsafes, and ended Michael's project that could have been used to save the lives of thousands of people worldwide, not to mention heal injuries of millions.”

“But no one was hurt...right?”

“Michael was,” Hector said.

“But he brought The Lizard--”

“With your help. You could have refused or even told him you wouldn't let him fight the Lizard if you thought it was too dangerous. You could even have thrown The Lizard in The Raft the second he was cured or even before. You still chose to bring him in and ignored the warning Michael gave you about the experiment.”

“Fine,” Spider-Man finally conceded. He grabbed himself a piece of paper and started writing. “I was really hoping to lowball this and get it over with, but I'll take the high road and give you something better. Here. It's not like you can do anything but keep asking me to come back.” He slid the paper over to Michael, who had been quiet and stoic throughout everything.

Michael just sat there in silence, barely glancing at the paper. He was still busy daydreaming he was somewhere else while Spider-Man was bothering with real criminals.

“So...” Spider-Man said, trying to give a verbal nudge to move the meeting along.

“You're serious?” Michael asked. “If this is a joke, it's a bad one. I prefer your puns.” He angrily jotted down his answer on the same piece of paper and handed it to Hector.

“That's a 'no'?” Spider-Man asked, seeing the expression on Hector's face ans the lawyer looked at Michael.

“Not in the politest sense,” Hector said, shrugging. “Three Thousand is a pretty paltry sum, even to start with.”

“Yeah, but what can you do?” Spider-Man said as he stood up and approached he window. “Take it or leave it, Michael. I'm pulling the offer in a week.”

“We could put the video online and send it to any news sources interested in it,” Hector said. “A small newspaper is interested in an interview with Michael as well. I already told them they could interview Max and I when the trials were over. I'm pretty sure several burn wards would love to know how you left the man who could have saved at least half their patients to fry in the sun and suffer agonizing cancer. Unless Michael objects, we’re done here.”

“I don't,” Michael said, interested in what was going on for the first time.

“That's it?” Spider-Man asked. “You're leaving? You're not really going to do all that, are you? What do you want out of this?”

Michael hated him for the comment. How could anyone, especially a hero, ask such a thing? He wanted to leap across the table and beat some senses into the pompous jerk.

He reminded himself Hector had already laid out the cards on the table and dealt a winning hand. Spider-Man had called a bluff and lost. “Are you asking me that to mock it or to think up appropriate reparations?”

“The last one sounds more heroic,” Spider-Man replied.

Hector put a hand on Micheal's shoulder, but the vampire tossed it off. He'd had his time for diplomacy.

“You're never going to feel guilty about what happened, so all I can ask for is for you to fuck off out of my life and stay there. I have several conditions, all of which you've taken advantage of to hurt me, and one being hematophagia—which is not addiction. What I have can't be solved so simply like your childhood cartoons or a speech yo were given in school. If you want to throw money at something and be lazy about it, send that Uatu child to a therapist before he hurts himself or someone human.”

“Uh, but about eh videos and the interviews...?”

“I'm sure people will forget about them after another stunt or two of yours. Go save the moon or something if you're worried about them.”

“In the meantime, you know, while it doesn't need saving, how about going back to negotiating?”

“Talk to Hector. Or Max. Someone who doesn't feel like punching you in the face.” He did his best to be dignified as he stormed out the door.

“Okay, one: you should start giving him decaf. Two: I really think I should fix this before it blows up in my face a few months after I forget about it due to some disaster, so I could use a few lawyerly suggestions. Three: please don't punch me in the face.”

“I've been considering it,” Hector admitted. “Max didn't want it on Horizon's security videos or anywhere you'd find out about and he was worried for the first three months about letting me find out, given I was there to fire him and then you had your little 'episode'. He was a mess at home and it wasn't that much fun when he told me he was worried about the guy. You messed up my husband and now he's watching his best friend fall apart. His lawyer recommended I didn't, unless if was off the records—just between you and me.”

“You're not his lawyer?” Spider-Man asked.

“I'm a corporate lawyer. I'm here to smooth things over about him going back to Horizon and keeping him from trying to kill you until she gets here.”

“She?” Spider-Man asked. “I think I'm in trouble.”

 

 

 

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

  1. “I'm sorry” was the first thing Hector heard when he opened the door. Usually Michael was a mess of guilt and recovery. A famous article compared The Raft to Guantanamo and not only argued shutting it down, but never having built it or giving S.H.I.E.L.D. authority over a prison. Now he looked worse. Hector could could see lawyers and reporters seeing him from afar and swarming him like hyenas on a weak calf.

““Don't be. He insisted on talking to you. We've done that. He has my number.”

“Were you really going to do all that if he doesn't offer something better?” Michael asked. Hector could tell he didn't believe any of it.

“Yes. It was your lawyer's idea, not mine, but I needed leverage. She said some press on your side would help, even if it's not all roses and sunshine.”

“You really think so?” Michael asked.

“I can't promise it'll make him budge on the lawsuit. He gave me this note though. He said if you're going to the papers, you might want to look at this first.”

“A threat?” Michael asked. He wasn’t surprised at the action.

“Begging,” Hector answered, handing the note to Micheal.

 

_Hey, remember that Uatu kid?_ _He's in the hospital and it's kinda my fault. Some demonic guy named Blackout (please believe me when I say demons exist) heard about him and me at Horizon and decided it was easy revenge. No one knows what to do for the kid or his mom. Dr. Strange hopes the dad is dead. He recommended I ask you for help._

_So, uh, please?_

 

_PS: I_ _already made sure to destroy every single thing he invented._

 

_PPS: If you need anything, use the e-mail on the back of this note._

 

“You're gonna do it, aren't you?” Hector asked. “You're gonna have one of those all-night scientist sessions where you can’t stop blaming yourself for not figuring out the answer fast enough, aren't you?”

“No,” Micheal said calmly. “I already know the answer. I just never published it.”

“Well, I'm blaming you for teaching Max to do that.”

 

* * *

 

Somehow it was quieter without Michael around. Uatu's cure was on it's way. Hector had been given a vague outline of what Michael needed at Horizon and in an apartment of his own. The books had been sold back to the store. Everyone had to find a way to wait, all on their own.

Michael's room was in a suite next to theirs. Michael could choose to lock it at any time, but everyone involved knew better. He enjoyed the formality of it, though.

Hector's 'upgrade' included two connected rooms that tightly overlooked a busy four-lane street. No one who wouldn’t fly wasn't going to bother Micheal, and that was only if they learned his room number.

Michael's move was unceremonious. Max had moved what little there was of Michael's into his room while Michael typed on Hector's laptop. Once Michael handed back the laptop – then let out a loud yawn, the most vocal he had been all day--he wandered into his own room to sleep and closed the door quietly.

It was supposed to be the end of all problems with Michael. He had read the books and knew he basics of the American legal system. He had no phone for vigilantes to bother him on. He had an invitation to dinner and had made a promise to leave windows well enough alone.

Now, well rested after Michael's departure, Max and Hector's worst problem were boredom and finding topics to keep Michael engaged during dinner.

Today there was boredom. Then there was a thump. Hector and Max stared at each other for a split second until they realized it had come from Michael's room.

Max rushed over to the door while Hector stood where he was, clueless about what to do.

“Get the first aid kit!” Max exclaimed, closing the door to pretend Michael hadn't heard him.

Hector grabbed the kit from the nightstand drawer and rushed over, only to have it ripped out of his hands and to be shoved away and the door slammed in his face. He hoped it wasn't personal.

 

* * *

 

Max grabbed what was handed to him by instinct and rushed to help Michael. His friend was curled up on the floor, clutching his forehead, hiding his hands in his mass of tangled curls.

At first Michael didn't respond to Max shaking him. It was a full minute before Michael shook his head and tried to shove Max away. Undeterred, Max took hold of Michael's swatting hand and used it to help the man up from the floor to sit on the bed. He was relieved Michael had his hand over the wound just above his eye; he didn't have to be careful about wincing at the sight of blood.

Consoled and confused by the action and the words “Come on, you're fine,” Michael moved his hands from his face. His blood-smeared hand remained around Max's shoulder, where his friend put it, but only for balance.

“It's not that bad,” Max said, contrarily opening the first aid kit. “Hold still, though. I don't know how you're healing factor reacts to infections and I'm not going to risk finding out.” The bruise was just above Michael's eyebrow, practically glowing red against his white skin. A small, uneven gash lay on top, like some vulgar mouth of a blood volcano, seeping magma down Michael's face.

“What happened?” Max asked, shoving Michael's hair away to dab the gash with alcohol. Getting a better look at the wound just made it uglier. Cleaning it made it uglier. “I know you can see fine in the dark, and you know no one can get in without us knowing.”

“I...I'm not sure,” Michael admitted. Technically it wasn't a lie. Max had eliminated his best ones, anyway. “It was a nightmare...sort of. I always have them.” He held up his hand to dissuade Max from the wrong line of thinking. “I'm used to it. It just...reminded me of something.”

He couldn't tell Max what it reminded him of. He was a murderer, there was no way around it. He had killed Nikos, only when his friend just wanted to help as Michael experienced the first pain of his transformation. Working at Horizon to save others was the only way Michael could not only find redemption for it, but to find a way to enjoy life again and forget about it.

“I was worried about you...and Hector and others, but mostly you,” Michael continued, having found a decent lie by omission that he figured would satisfy his friend. “You're always there to help me and you're the only person who treats me like a scientist and not something to avoid. If Sajani wasn't there, I'd have killed you.”

“That's it?” Max wondered aloud.

“Max, I want you to promise me you won't let that happen. I don't want to have to go back to the hospital—or worse--” His grip tightened on Max's shoulder at the implication. “But I don't want Sajani to be right and I'm just be some creature who can't help but follow its instincts.” Michael turned away and pulled his arm back.

“I'm not sure what happened. The room started spinning...almost. I don't know; the walls felt like they were receding and closing in at the same time and I couldn't balance. I tried to levitate to keep from falling over, but it just made things worse. I don't know why, but I just wanted to escape.” Michael waited a full heartbeat to continue. He to Max, eager to if he had chased away his friend yet. “You're not angry with me, are you?”

“I don't see why I would be,” Max said, using the opportunity to slip a small bandage over Michael's wound. “It's called a panic attack, it's not something you can control.”

Those were the wrong words, Max realized as he saw Michael silents hiss inward.

“Michael, lots of people have them. Especially after something traumatic. It doesn't mean--”

“I don't want to go back, please.” Michael's voice faltered to a whisper. He wasn't going to cry in front of Max. Not again. This was all just a dark, nihilistic fact to him. Maybe it was how much it would hurt Max, knowing how real and how close the possibility of losing Michael for good. Michael wasn't going to believe that, no matter how much he asked it to himself. He wasn't going to believe Max cared that much. Not anymore. That was the source of the pain he didn't think he should feel, that what there was between them was gone and could never be recovered.

“If I have go back...I don't think I'll ever be allowed out. I'd be too dangerous to someone—even myself—it won't matter. I won't be getting out and...I don't care what I have to do, I'll end things for the best.”

“Michael--”

“Please, Max. I'm not going to think anything else. I want you to know this. I know you feel safe around me, but... I want to you to be prepared just in case...however you want to be.”

“You'd better have some faith in your lawyer then,” Max said, squeezing Michael's shoulder for comfort.

Michael sighed heavily and an embarrassed half-grimace twitch across his face and he bit his lip. “When does she get here?”

Max wanted Michael to talk about what happened that made him suddenly beg for forgiveness and fly out the window to get away from him. Did he cause it? Did Hector? Sajani? Was it just too many people not wanting him around that made him suddenly think the world hated him and Max along with it? Was it being fired? Agreeing with Spider-Man? Letting Spider-Man and Jameson continue to make threats and throw around power? Did Michael care at the time what it would feel like for Max if he ran away, or did he think he'd be happy Michael was gone immediately? Whatever it was, it hurt Michael more than Max thought it could. He wanted his friend back. He wanted to pull out the barb and fix the wound. But Michael just wanted the wound untouched and left to fester. There wasn't anything to do now. He couldn't push the subject. “An hour or so.”

“I'm a mess,” Michael mumbled.

“No, you hit your head. You're fine,” Max said. “You look like someone who needs a lawyer and who needs to brush his hair.”

“I'm probably going back to the Raft...or back there for a while.” Why wasn't Max worried. He couldn't understand why Max wasn't as worried as he was.

“Not necessarily,” Max said, getting up. “Unless Sajani has some surprise—which is probably illegal—you're just charged with simple assault and desecrating a cemetery.” He moved to rummage through what little Michael owned for a hair brush. He knew he had bought one for him. He gave up and went into the bathroom“ The last one is just a misdemeanor. You could get community service or a fine, or you could just be assigned whatever therapy Linda thinks is best for you if you decide to go to Mental Health Court. You could go to work immediately; you'd just have paid breaks for therapy for the first several months. Don't you need--?”

“Yes,” Michael answered, hanging his head and not looking at Max. He had never gotten over his embarrassment for his need for blood around Max. After the incident and the year in prison for it, whatever progress he'd made had been undone.

“You know, you're going to have to go out and do stuff soon. Get your own things, meet people, go for a walk or flight or whatever. I'm not saying I'm not going to help you, but you can't be a shut-in even if you're nocturnal.”

“I'd rather not,” Michael said, seeing Max enter the bathroom. “I don't see any point now.”

“You're not sleeping at work this time,” Max said, returning with a thermos. “And I want you to talk to people. Make friends. It's a real job and you're not hiding from anyone anymore. You’ll have to find some reason to get there from your apartment. Start with that.”

Michael sighed. There wasn't anymore needed to express his surrender over the subject. “Could you...?”

“You're going to have to work on that, too, Michael,” he said, shoving the thermos as him.

Michael shook his head as he gently took the thermos from his friends hands. He still didn't look up at his friend. He wouldn't fight his friend over needing blood, but consuming it in front of someone so close was something else.

“It's like taking insulin, or your pills.”

Michael didn't move. He didn't speak. He just sat on the bed, staring at where Max had found him after he'd injured himself in the stupidest way possible for him. Max didn't even think of him as normal enough to get mad at him. Now Max wanted him to embarrass himself.

“You want to see me diet?” Max suggested. “I'll do whatever's healthy out in the open if you will.”

“You're fine Max,” was Michael's answer.

“I'm not, Micheal. I've always been too close to qualify as overweight for Hector's peace of mind. I passed that mark over a year ago and my blood pressure's been a bit high for the last few months. I've been worrying myself into overeating and it's because of a lot things, but worrying about you hasn't helped. Hector set things up because he was concerned about me studying the security camera footage from the incident. I'm worried about you, Hector, losing Horizon again, having to retire...I know you can’t promise anything, but knowing you're going to be okay and that you'll work on this would make me feel a lot better. I knew Spider-Man had pushed you into what you did, and I was never mad at you. I was disappointed for a while, but I was mad at myself even before I knew what happened. Knowing you're back and that you're going to stay and work with Linda makes me feel a lot less worried. Being able to talk to you without you wanting to run away from me is something I've always enjoyed, I'm sorry I took that for granted.”

“Max?” His friend was always the most comforting person Michael knew, even better than Martine at calming people down and solving conflicts. But this was the first time he was ever this open about anything to Michael. Michael himself had admitted a lot of personal problems to Max, but Max himself was never considered complicated enough to have a hang-up warranting secrets or needing to be told in detail.

“Whatever you want or need, I'll do it. I just don't want to lose you again, even like this. I want you the way you used to be. You can still be the guy I knew while I work on a cure.”

“Are you sure you can...I just want you to think of me as normal,” Michael whispered, unable to speak louder. He didn't want to refuse his friend, especially when he was begging for it. But nothing had been the same since Michael's accident.

“I did. I already lost you once because of it. I'm going to think of you as a friend who needs my help for a while.”

“I just want to be normal...and forget everything about... being like this.” He dropped the thermos and pushed his hand through his hair. “I'm not going to get better, am I?”

“Going to therapy will at least keep things from getting worse. She could even get you off the pills for the most part. I'm personally going to be spearheading a project find a cure. I didn't want to tell you because of what happened last time. I know how much it means to you, but I don't want anything rushed and I definitely don't want anyone to interfere. I copied your notes from the Horizon computer before the building was destroyed.”

“There's only one cure, though,” Michael said, picking up the thermos and finally tilting his head and looking at Max. Max was his friend but he wasn't going to do what he was insinuating he was going to do with Max around.

“That's not exactly true. It's a big risk, though. I don't know if it's possible, but and I want to make sure I can keep from losing Horizon over it. I want to see if there are other options first.”

“You really think there are others?” Michael asked. He wasn't excited, but calm. He placed his hand on the thermos.

“Yes, but I'd rather not tell--”

“You're sure there's a chance?” Michael asked, twisting the cap off.

“There might be. I'm going to try everything I can think of, but slowly. I want to be careful and I don't want you hurt if something fails. I also don't want to attract unwarranted attention.”

“That is...fair.” Michael agreed. Michael had already learned that only Spider-Man and a few others never regarded Michael as vulnerable. He didn't have the strength to take blows any more than when he was human. He could barely defend himself with fighting skills. He tended to attract everything from augmented villains to demons, to heroes just by standing in an abandoned alley. The fewer his uninvited, the better.

“You're going to have to get used to drinking in front of people and they're going to have to get used to it. No one's allowed to give you any trouble about it. I'm your boss; you can come to me if it happens. But can you do me a favor?”

“Yes?”

“Can we sit and talk? Like we used to?” Max asked.

“Yes.”

 

* * *

 

Far away, almost all the way across the world from New York, leaving the plight of one vampire, began a new one. Here begins the tale of Bob.

Bob survived on doing menial tasks for those more powerful in strength, magic, or rank. No one cared about Bob and Bob found that fine. Pleasant, sometimes. This was not one of those times.

Most vampires, these days, preferred to settle into a mix of antiquity and highly advanced technology. Bob preferred modern technology, which included magazines and the occasional newspaper. This particular magazine was called The Economist. Few of the other vampires around him would have believed he could appreciate, let alone understand, such a magazine, though most just left him to it. This time, however, it wasn't a vampire who found him reading.

Before, she was known as Lilith. Now, she was called Kiskillilla. She had once tried to insist upon her old name, but now she seemed proud of her new one, pretending to have forgotten about losing the quarrel to a much younger woman who did far less while holding a higher rank in the new vampire nation and it's circle of advisers and yesmen.

Kiskillilla was in one of her moods. It was her only mood. It was a mix of spite and a boredom-fueled need for destruction, like a neglected toddler whose only acknowledged skill was breaking their sibling's toys that percolated like week-old coffee.

'Leave the walls of reality alone.' 'Don't eat my vampires—even that one.' 'No, I'm not going to seek revenge on whoever that is.' It was enough to push any ancient being who once had unimaginable power and control to her breaking point.

Bob had unfortunately and unwittingly brought that very breaking point with him today. He had folded the previous page over to the back, turning the magazine inside-out. He was absorbed in a story about mass graves and police nonchalance in Brazil. He had skipped the previous article, not caring for it. Kiskillilla, however, became extremely interested when she rounded the corner and spied Bob's reading material.

Ripping the magazine from his hands, she glared at it as if she intended to set it aflame by her willpower and hate alone. Further angered at her lack of a display of power and disposal of the offending page, she unceremoniously shredded the entire magazine. “Insolent brats of mine! I will obey absolutely no one until I have put those children in their place! Their fights should be in my name only!” She stormed off, her anger further fueled by her actions not being literal enough for her liking.

Bob was used to people shrieking about revenge, turning on their heel, and stomping off as if there was still drama in it when everyone did it every week. He scooped up the pieces and tossed them in the trash, thankful he hadn't buckled from peer pressure and bought a kindle.

 

 

  


 




 


	9. Chapter 9

“Mother's calling,” Girth muttered. Most people considered his large size to be an indication of low intelligence and his mass nothing but bloated, over-indulged, fat. The other Lilin knew better. Girth may have been no genius, but he was neither stupid, nor easily outwitted or swindled. They knew every bit of their brother was hard-packed with both natural and magical strength, even that hard head of his.

The response from everyone was silence, as they all waited for another to speak up first. There were five of them; all having joined together until the flimsily never-actually-mentioned pretense of not getting into major trouble while causing general Lilin trouble got them into too much trouble.

Blackout had found Girth and was willing to hang up his hat so long at it wasn't truly literal in exchange for his bigger brother to watch out for people in costumes and masks. Girth had been responsible for finding the others, almost all of them before Blackout joined the crew. Gadarene was the oldest of them all, while the other two were young. Belle, though her Lilin blood was diluted over more than a dozen generations, took after her grandmother of many greats before, with large, elegant prongs on her head and cold, glacial skin. The last was Warcraft, who tended to keep silent about most things and let his actions speak louder than any words—the people whose illegally parked car was now a modern art sculpture across the street and on top of a roof would someday vouch for that.

Blackout dared to shrug. He was done getting himself in trouble without others at his side. Their mother was never on any side but her own.

“Thought so,” Girth said, agreeing with everyone else. He slowly went back to his nap as Blackout returned to giving the small television a small fraction of his attention. Warcraft was soon absorbed in the show, while Belle found more interest in watching how rapt the others became in the noise and flickering images, while occasionally scolding Gadarene for enjoying his firecracker powers indoors.

Gadarene winced and reluctantly conceded, not wanting to pay for a new couch because he had set it on fire again and decided the television was more interesting than staring at the wall. Soon, they were all enjoying the show in their own individual ways, including Girth who preferred the white noise to the possible threats that silence could hold.

 

* * *

 

Michael hadn't had much luck with the brushes or combs Max had bought him. Within fifteen minutes after his shower, he had broken two and gotten one stuck in his tangled hair. He didn't even contemplate cutting it. He had no skill at it whatsoever, and he didn't trust Max or Hector to have any either. No professional would dare work on his hair, no matter how much he was paid. A shaved head or irregularly chopped hair wouldn't help his argument in front of a judge.

He hadn't wanted to comb his hair. Max had just suggested it as a way to make himself look better for his lawyer and as something he was sure Micheal couldn't hurt himself doing on his own. He sat there contemplating continuing or giving up for another twenty minutes.

He snapped the comb in half, giving up on the mess of tangles. He could deal with it after the trial. Just as he had made up his mind but before wondering what else to do, he heard a knock at his door.

Michael stood up and went to the door, then hesitated. Should he doubt everything Max had done to keep him safe or was he still supposed to be cautious? Max had mentioned a lawyer would be coming over. It would be rude to make them wait. How did Max know this person wouldn't work against them when it was so easy and such a popular opinion?

He opened the door. If Max could hear him fall on the floor, he could hear him yell at Spider-Man for not leaving him alone.

“Michael!”

“Jenn?” She had always been confusing. She had been unpredictable in many ways before he had been convinced to let her help him, and that was after an argument about her true motives. She still contacted him when she could locate him—her ties to SHIELD though didn’t persuade him to answer sometimes—yet wanted him to address her as a friend and whether they're relationship was causal or professional. Even in her smaller, less green, form, she had a very strong grip. He didn't mind, though. She was still good at hugging, especially when she wanted to show it was a hug and not an aggressive tackle.

“Michael, I missed you,” she said, letting go. “I lost track of you until I heard the news.”

“I'm not sure what you could have done,” Micheal said, closing the door. He watched her set her purse and briefcase on the table.

“You really don't think I could have done something before when I'm getting you out of this mess now?”

“I think I won't answer that,” Micheal responded.

“You're probably right, though,” she said before sighing. She didn't sit down. “I might have gotten the mayor out of office or made Spider-Man look bad, but I don't think I could have actually done anything that mattered. I should have been there sooner. Probably before you got fired for stealing something. Zombies are icky.”

“I thought that was top secret,” Michael said, walking over and pulling out a chair.

“It was until A.R.M.O.R. was dissolved,” she said, sitting down finally.

“What is SHIELD doing about other dimensions?” he asked. “Should I be worried?”

“Probably not. Lots of people are bouncing around from one dimension to another these days, sometimes they can’t keep track of which one they're in.”

“Any zombies in them?”

“I think you've cleared most of those out. If you really wanted, you could inoculate people against Spider-powers.”

“There are that many Spiders?” he asked. “Should I be worried?”

“Not after this trial is over, you won't.”

“But I--”

“Micheal, I agreed to fight a heavily-powered alien because I trusted SHIELD and my teammates because an inhuman with the power of prediction based on statistics said he would attack. Nearly everything he saw ruined my life from that point on and there are so many more things he should have seen, but didn't. I lost every ounce of trust in my team what they work for after that trust cost me the life of my cousin. Everything’s been different for me since then, and I've been trying to escape it all.”

“So, you want me to...”

“I want you to help me win. This isn't for you this time. This is about defining someone who can't help changing into something dangerous as not human and stripping away their rights. I'm doing this for me. You are not going to screw this up, understand?”

“Um...” was all he could give as an answer. Could her temper stand up to Spider-Man's stubbornness? Sajani's hatred? Would it turn into anything effective in court? Besides, how could he screw up? Lying was perjury, but what if telling the truth was screwing up? This wasn't in any of Hector's books. “Is there anything I can do that's easier than that?”

 

* * *

 

There was a lot Micheal hasn't been aware of, or had been willfully ignorant of. He had pay stubs, a work visa, tax returns, and an account in his name Max had been holding on to. Micheal did not remember most and the rest he thought Max had made up in order to cheer him up. He happily signed and filled out anything Max gave him without looking at it and not caring what it was. He never thought the paperwork would actually amount to anything.

Jennifer promised him an ID, a passport, and even a library card. Micheal tried to leave the excitement up to her, but the chance to be recognized as a customer instead of a monster overwhelmed his cynicism. Despite what he had been told ever since he had met Linda, his condition was more likely to earn him a bad verdict than anything he could say on the witness stand. People were afraid of a vampire. Even those who had never heard of him or didn't care would be frightened once they saw him. No one had to hear him speak or even know the charges, all they needed to know was that he—that thing—was on trial and that they had the power to put him as far away and for as long as possible.

She had no remedy for that. She had expertise with the law. She had fame. She had experience with lesser known criminals.

Last time she had helped him when he plead guilty for his bloodlust. Now he was pleading innocent for it, along with digging up the mutilated body of a child.

They had intended to spent long hours discussing angles, how to spin predicted statements by the prosecution, what to do about threats and accusations that would inevitably be presented, witnesses they could call in his defense, laws nad evidence to present in their favor. They had meant to discuss all of that. They did. But not as much as they had wanted.

They ended up reminiscing about who they had lost, how much they had hurt, and what the other knew about that lay under the unfortunate mask of an unpredictable monster who knew nothing but hurting others and had to live with the guilt of what they had done but could never remember.

 

 

 

A week later, it was Michael's turn to face a judge. Hector spent the week ignoring calls and preparing evidence and telling ax to get his speech about friendship and second chances together and to not look like he was emulating Spider-Man when he did. Instead, Max spent the week worrying about Michael. Michael focused on studying everything he could. He didn't want to end up where he didn't want to be or even deemed unfit for court because he didn't understand something about American courts. He was lucky no one cared the last time he was on trial. Now he realized he didn't even know the capital of the state he was in and wondered if that would get him kicked out of it.

Finally, the day came, and only Linda was prepared.

“Just say how you want to help Michael, whether he wants it or not,” Hector whispered to Max as they sat down. Linda smiled, though she face the judge and whether she heard, they never found out. Michael wasn't paying attention at all, just trying to keep what confidence he could muster and make himself look presentable. He was slightly distracted by his new boots.

The layout of the courtroom was very different. There was no witness stand, no separate seats for prosecution and defendant sides, and—it absence almost a cruel ghost sitting it its corner—no jury or jury box.

It was just a few desks in a line for everyone and a space to approach the judge, who controlled and decided everything. Linda wasn't worried, as she had done this before. Michael didn't care, he felt the outcome was already decided—he just wanted to keep his dignity.

There was a bailiff, standing nest to the judge's podium, exercising her skill at being invisible while standing in the open. She stood next to the judge's podium, fully ignoring the others. She was human and her job was to protect everyone and break up fights, yet she showed no regard towards Michael. It was only a slight comfort as the judge arrived.

Hector and Linda had to remind Max and Michael respectively not to stand as the bailiff announced the judge and that the trial was starting.

“Alright Michael...there’s not much to any of you're official records, but from what I can see, you're extremely smart and pretty good at cooperating with authorities—the good ones.” He held up his hand to keep anyone from interrupting. “We'll discuss Spider-Man later. He's not the only one who seems to have given you trouble. I can't help you with a green card, but I recommend you try to get one. You're extremely smart and lots of places could use a guy like you. You seem to be able to handle yourself these days.”

“Thank you,” Michael responded, as the judge flipped through a few pages. He had no idea if it was appropriate, he just knew he had to look like he was paying attention and following rules. The bailiff didn't care, so he assumed he was doing the right thing.

The judge raised an eyebrow at the notes in front of him before speaking again. “It says here the first item here is...digging up a body from a cemetery.” The judge looked up, keeping eye contact with Michael. “That's unusual for most anyone. What was your reason for it?”

“To be arrested without having to physically hurt someone” Michael answered.

“You don’t seem very interested in answering, Michael,” the judge said. “Is something wrong?”

Michael sighed. The only thing worse than going through all of this again was to be called out on not wanting to go through it again. “I've answered this question too many times already. I was an obvious problem for Horizon and the only solution was to get into trouble on my own. My problem had nothing to do with Horizon and Max wouldn't fight to keep me there. At worst, the experiment I used the body for wouldn't have cured me but killed me, but that would make things even simpler in the long run and I didn't care all that much about the difference. That's all there is to it.”

“You know that you could have filed a petition to have the body exhumed for scientific DNA extraction, correct?”

“The mayor was the most adamant about having me removed...and that I was a dangerous monster as the reason. He would have had my petition overturned immediately. Suing him for that or anything else would just have taken money from Horizon when I had caused a significant amount of donors and civilians to end support. I didn't think I had any friends with the power to change that.”

“Do you think you could have managed to make sure it would cure you, if you had the time?”

“That or I'd find why it wouldn't work at all and start over using that information,” Michael said.

“Moving on,” the judge said, taking only a cursory glance at his notes. “The next item is an accusation of simple assault.” He looked back up at Michael before turning back to his notes, occasionally shooting a friendly glance at the defendant.

“I don't think I remember doing that,” Michael apologized.

“The accusation is simple assault against Ms. Sajani Jaffrey,” the Judge prompted.

“Then I definitely don't remember that. I've always had blackouts during those incidents. Sometimes I'm able to struggle through the hunger and have a few moments of clarity interspersed between them, but I'm never been aware of feeding one someone. Ever.”

“What was she doing at the time?”

“Poking me and calling me a cereal mascot,” Michael answered.

“And how did you intend to solve that problem?”

“I was about to ask the police to move her out of the way so they could arrest me.”

“Really?” the judge asked, slightly skeptical.

“I wanted to be arrested in the first place. Besides, I've yet to be poked and screamed at by police,” Michael admitted.

“What happened instead?”

“I'm not sure,” Michael said. “Max said The Lizard did some sort of sabotage because no one was watching him. All I know is I was suddenly dizzy and disoriented. I forgot where I was, but it only lasted a second and then I had blood in my mouth and I was holding onto her when I didn't want to be near her. I know that doesn't make any sense, but it's all I can remember.”

“No, that makes perfect sense,” the judge agreed. “And you seem to have wanted to be a model citizen...arrested, but still civil and following procedure..which brings us to the last item on the list: your friends are submitted a write of Habeas Corpus on your behalf. What are your statements on this?”

“I'm not sure. I assumed it was just SHIELD jurisdiction to take me to The Raft. It's not?” Michael asked

“No, that only applies to unlawful enemy combatants. According Constitution of this country, you are entitled to a fair trial and the verdict of your last trial declared you guilty only of involuntary manslaughter due to lack of available medical compensation. Were you ever read your rights, specifically those known as Miranda Rights, at any time you were detained or arrested for any crimes you were accused of by authorities while you were within the border on the United States?”

“Never,” Michael answered.

“Were you ever given notification of proceedings in investigation, a hearing, or a trial before or after you arrived at The Raft?”

“I wasn't told anything other than that the guards are armed and not to talk to anyone.”

“Were you given medical aid for your injuries or allowed to socialize or anywhere to exercise outside of your cell?”

“I was told that only happened when you were dead,” Michael answered.

“I don't have any more questions, however you may be asked more by others in order to perform thorough investigations on SHIELD misconduct. Not complying with them can easily be considered illegal, but asking for verification of authority is not. Is that understood?”

“I believe so,” Michael said. He hoped things weren't more complicated that the explanation, though they usually were.

“Alright, thank you. I can understand your frustration. Now, I'd like to hear arguments from everyone. Dr...Linda Stevens, is it?”

“Yes, sir,” Linda said, promptly standing up. “Michael came to this country when he tried to run away from the nightmare caused by the side effects of attempting to cure himself. He didn't meet with any attempts to help or understand and in stead found himself, time after time, he was nearly killed by a vigilante and ignored by others unless they saw him as a victim. With only a few exceptions, that has been his life for over fifteen years. Prison was be the only way to be treated as a fellow human again. But he IS human, yet no one can see past a single medical problem while he has saved over a billion people total with his patents, both personal and held by Horizon in his name. He was on the verge of saving several billion more when he was beaten and arrested for being taken advantage of. He need a chance to re-learn to live the lives he's given back.”

“What medical conclusions have you found besides his physical problems?” the judge asked. He managed to qualify to need this assistance. What circumstances specifically made him need this kind of help?”

“Several. He's taken both electronic and oral interviews with me and he consented to medical tests to check for further symptoms. Depression, anxiety, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Sending him back to be at the Institute full time is going to exacerbate all of those, as well as keeping him to trying to rehabilitate and as soon as possible. The longer the wait, the more dangerous they can be even with medication.”

“Thank you. Now, Hector Baez? How do you know Michael, exactly?”

“I don't really,” Hector said, hesitantly standing up. “I never really met him until a few weeks ago when Max brought him from the Institute. I'm not even sure how mu I've been helping other than explaining some legalese. But he's extremely important to my husband; he was desperate for my help when Michael's presence was revealed at Horizon and the mayor was furious about it. If it helps, I have all the files here with me and a list of violations incurred against Michael, as well as notes on automatism, which I believe was the condition Michael was in during his last incident at Horizon.”

“I can look those over, later,” the judge said, waving his hand. “What is your impression of Michael?”

“Well...” Hector stalled and turned to Michael.

Michael did seem to expect anything of Hector...not help, not retaliation for keeping him from his would-be-husband, not confusion, not even to ask questions.

Hector realized Michael didn't expect this to go any differently than his last trial. He just wanted to avoid Sajani's accusations and do what he could to minimize his time locked away. Michael didn't care what the outcome was or who vouched for him or who didn't. He expected Max to be his friend and Linda to want to help and for it to all be meaningless when it came to the verdict. He just wanted a guarantee of being human....or the closest thing to it. He didn't expect anything from Hector because he didn't expect it to matter. “Stubborn. Not the best thing for a house guest, but great for a scientist. I should know, I married one. Hector hates giving up and I think Michael taught it to him. He's quiet, he's focused, and it takes a lot to get him to hurt anyone. If I had to spent as long as he had lost, hungry, homeless, and hating myself, I'd need help adjusting and remembering a few things too. If it weren't for the mayor, the most annoying thing about him would be having to give him his own storage room to sleep in. I hated the paperwork for that. Plus working out paying him under the counter.”

“Were there any problems Michael himself had that would make him a poor employee at Horizon if he returned?” the judge asked.

“He's not very inclined to socialize,” Hector said, hoping the judge would find both seriousness and humor in the comment. “He thought it was too risky after everyone knew who he was. I think that's going to take some getting used to since things escalated petty badly.”

“That's pretty normal for people who need this kind of help,” the judge sympathized, turning to Michael to show it. He turned back to Hector. “I take it you'd take responsibility to help him re-establish comfort is attempting normal social activities?”

“Me? I barely know him!” Hector protested. He figured the trial and finding a few legal loopholes to take care of Micheal were all he needed to do to solve this problem.

“He is your husband’s best friend, isn't he?” the judge asked. “You also have the legal power to back HR to enforce anti-harassment decisions, correct?”

“I can do those, sure,” Hector admitted, somewhat embarrassed. “But he's not a kid, he has to work on things himself. I can say that, right?”

“Don't push him too much, and encourage him when he's successful like normal, please. But you should be involved in his social life,” the judge corrected. “Is that all you wish to say?”

“If you intend to read the legal files after this, then no,” Hector said. He was beginning to understand how Michael felt, just wanting to get things over with, now.

“Then, I want to hear from Max Modell,” the judge said. Everyone says you're Michael's closest friend and you hired him to work at Horizon, despite the risks and ongoing problems. What are your works on how you feel about Michael and how to proceed?”

“Most everything's been said, sir,” Max said, not standing up, but sitting up straight in his chair. “Given what made him go out that window, I think if I'm just there for him and if I can actually help him this time, it'd be a big help. Plus...well, I don't really like thinking about him being mistreated and he's gotten that end of the stick a lot. Mostly, I think he just needs a place to enjoy being a scientist and I think it would help the rest of the world if he did. He cured the spider-island virus, he found a cure to his original condition, and he was working on artificial blood plasma, which could help anyone from cancer patients to burn victims worldwide. I think he'd like actual recognition for his hard work on that, not getting beaten up or thinking he has to exhume a body himself because someone in a higher place thinks he's not human. I know it's selfish, but I just want my friend back. He might not talk to me or Linda and probably not Hector, but If he's comfortable enough to just say 'hi' to someone, it'd be feel like that again.”

The judge nodded. “That's definitely what we want to work toward. I appreciate your honesty too. Michael, after hearing everything, do you have any statements?”

“I doubt it would have any impact,” Michael replied. Now he didn't so much as want it all to be over, but not to have to answer the question. Not in front of these people and not to someone who'd tell them 'for his own good'.

“It would have a lot of impact,” the judge said, trying to coax something of substance out of Michael.

Michael let out a heavy sigh and shifted in his seat away from the others. “I'm not sure if I want any of this, personally. I asked for this only because I might be able to keep from being sentenced to stay at the institution for an extended period of time. And to protect Max and Hector from having to deal with Ms. Jaffrey's temper. But no matter what hopes anyone ever has for me, it's always been safest for everyone if I just wasn't around. I don't want to hurt anyone from an accidental attack, and I don't want to know my free will or memory was taken away from me because it happened. To tell the truth, I don't know how to solve this, but I doubt just leaving everything alone will make that threat go away. I'll gladly pay for what I've done—please believe me that convicting and sentencing me would actually make me feel better if that's the goal here. But I just want to be left alone and not given so much pressure.”

“That’s a lot to consider, but this trial is designed to help you more than anyone else. Please keep that in mind. I'll hear form Linda once more time and then we'll have recess while I consider everything.”

Linda stood up. She turned to Michael and smiled, but it melted as soon as she noticed it had no affect on him. She turned to the judge, not out of propriety or duty, but to look at someone who wouldn't be disappointed in her. “I think Michael might retract that belief, or at least change is somewhat to appreciate having friends he can count on nearby, because he hasn't bee allowed to live a normal life. Most of that blame lies on a single vigilante, not Michael's actions. If it weren’t for Spider-Man's hostility, Max could have set a policy at Horizon to make others work to accept him and punish those like Ms Jaffrey or Mr. Jameson who wanted to literally demonize him and erase any knowledge of his goodwill or work that has helped many. There's too much pressure because he's not use to how to react to someone wanting him around as a friend, which makes it easy to react to pressure for him to leave by running away. He needs to feel it's easy, not difficult to change and that it's not a trap or what he's used to.”

“Alright, thank you. Dismissed. I recommend using the next hour to relax,” the judge said, banging his gavel immediately afterward. “Try to have some fun.”

Once the bailiff has escorted the judge out of the room, Hector stood up to stretch. He didn't look at Micheal. Michael didn't look at him or Max, who stared at his friend silently.

Max looked up as a hand landed on his shoulder and saw it was Linda. “Go on,” she whispered before taking her hand back and walking away. She grabbed Hector's hand and led him to give the two some space.

“Michael?” Max asked, leaning toward Michael, who stayed in his seat with his arms crossed and looking away.

“You're not mad, are you?” Michael asked, not moving in his strange, eerie way.

“At myself, maybe,” Max said. “If there's really that much pressure on you, just tell me. You can take things as slow as Linda says is okay, that’s fine with me. I just don't want you to leave. I was lucky to find you, and I don't want to go through all of this again to get you back.”

“It's just...it was hard enough to keep from screwing up when I was normal.”

“Don't bit anyone on purpose unless the cops say it's okay and you'll be fine. It's San Francisco. Besides, I always liked you weird. I don't like you panicking, or thinking you can’t talk like we used to.”

“But--”

“It's Horizon, Michael. A week after you took off, someone misplaced the entire building. And that was one of the safest experiments. You're probably one of the least dangerous of people around. There were a lot more fail safes than you thought, I just couldn't set them off with Spider-Man or a kid around. Just try to believe everything will be fine. For me. Start there.”

“That's all?”

“I'll handle everything else if you need,” Max said.

“You're a good friend.” He didn't say whether or not Max deserved better. He realized, finally, that Max needed him around to be that good of a friend to anyone. He was brusque, stubborn, and carried danger wherever he went, but he was needed to keep the nicest person her ever knew to be the nicest person he ever knew.

 

* * *

 

Hearing the verdict was a formality for most. Hector just wanted to get on to signing new paperwork and going back to his own apartment and no longer babysitting someone who didn't want to be babysat. Max just wanted to go home and have a permanent 'get out of jail' card for his friend when he started over. Linda just wanted to get back to her job or know that her work would no longer be needed unless Michael called her from San Francisco.

Only Michael was eager to hear the decision. Everything about how he'd feel the world wanted him to be hinged on what the judge would say. It was a frightening prospect, but what was worse was that there was no jury. The only person to ask for mercy and understanding was a single person who never heard a single protest by the law.

The judge and bailiff had taken their positions before the four arrived. “Michael, you mentioned you just wanted to get this over with. Less pressure, no more repetition, and being left alone and not badgered about this. I'll try to keep this short for you.”

“Thank you,” Michael answered with surprising honesty and transparency.

“S.H.I.E.L.D. will be investigated, though no more information from you will be needed, probably. You won't be required to return to New York, but you may be interviewed and it will be imperative you agree to the interview and keep everything about it confidential.”

“I've been called upon to keep quiet about such things before,” Michael said. “I'm not exactly sure if that would be on any records, though.”

The judge chuckled at Michael's attempt at humor.

It was the most humanizing thing Michael had known in years.

“Could you approach the podium, please?” the judge asked, still smiling.

Tentatively, Michael stood up and walked towards the judge. It wasn't always that someone walked right up to the single person who decided his fate from then on. “Sir?”

“You can use my name or just say 'Judge',” he said. “It's John.”

“Yes, sir,” Michael replied.

“With the authority granted to me by the State and City of New York, you've been found not guilty of assault. A class action suit may be filed later against Dr. Conners if and when he is found fit for court. Congratulations.” He extended his hand and waited for Michael to get a clue to shake it.

Michael stood there, waiting for the rest of the verdict.

“As for desecration of a public cemetery,” the judge continued, getting a clue. “I've determined the crime only counted as criminal mischief without any criminal or malicious intent. You're required to spend 3 months aiding the San Francisco police consisting of DNA and blood work, and two hours of watching a needle exchange during sunset, and pay a fine of $300. You're also required to follow the instructions of your therapist, whether the community or your work provides payment for it. You're allowed to protest what she asks if you can make a legitimate statement about your grievances, so don't think your stuck with her dictating your life. Now, let's try this again.” He reached out towards Michael, offered his hand.

“Thank you, sir” Michael answered, shaking the judge's hand. “I appreciate your decision.”

“My name's John.”

“Thank you, John.”

 

* * *

 

“You!” Kiskilillia annonuced in the closest form of greeting less powerful beings that she knew whom she needed a favor from.

And thus began a new chapter in the ballad of Bob the vampire. Bob the vampire wa sin no way connected to Bob from Hydra. Bob from Hydra had ambition, pride, would gladly work with Deadpool, and had a strong desire to stay alive. Bob the vampire had no ambition, most of his pride went into that, he had no knowedge of Deadpool save from what he heard from ranting sof the more powerful vampires when he couldn't avoid them, and he was already dead.

Bob looked around, hoping he couls pass her attention on to someone more capable of solving her problems. Or at least someone who could delay the inevitable destruction of the hallway when she got mad.

Unfortunately there was no one else around.

“You with that strange glowing metal slab. Does it teach you as much about the world as your collection of scrolls did?”

“Sorta,” he answered as she leaned over him. He had been looking at pictures of cats for the last hour.

Her hair floated wildly, viciously mocking the rules of physics while kindly keeping itself from falling in his face. Her face peered over him and her bosom was posed close to his shoulder. She wore extremely little, as he noticed most females capable tossing heavy artillery with one hand could.

“Ma'am, I'm gay. Could you please move those?”

Undaunted, she sat next to him, refusing to allow him to appease his desire to ignore her and enjoy a video of a kitten fighting a cactus. “I have need of someone who knows of how the world works in the ways without magic.”

“You're probably going to need money for whatever it is you want, then,” he said, hoping that would driver her to someone else before the magic lasers or grenades hidden who-knows-where -given-her-tight-bodysuit were brought out.

“Is that all?” she asked, put off at his asumtion of how large the task was. She reached towards the hole of her suit to the spot just between her collarbones and pressed her long fingernails into her skin. There was no blood, merely a hold that became larger and larger as she pushed her hand further into her own anatomy. She showed no pain as her entire hand pas her wrist pushed into the widening chasm. There was a pause for a brief moment before har hand began to retreat, pulling out a handful of metal objects as the hole sealed itself up without a trace that it had ever existed.

“It wasn't much back then, and worth much less when Atlantis sank,” she said, dropping the objects in his lap. They were coins. Ancient ones. Ones that wre ancient when normal ancient ones were new. “I have heard, though, that there are those who pay much for old relics.”

Bob couldn't argue with her logic. For someone ignorant of the ways of the modern world, she paid attention to what she did know.

“We'd need to get a letter of authenticity for these in order to sell them. I don't know how to find someone who can do that.”

“This person can be found without disturbing mortal or magical authorities?” she asked. “I do not wish to be interfered with. I have known even the most trifling of mortals to be overly bothersome.”

“Technically, sure,” Bob saidtapping his phone. It'd be hard to find the right person. We'd need someone legal, someone with credentials, and someone we can trust.”

“What does that metal slab do?”

“You tap it here and then you can type in words.,” he said, showing her before handing it to her. “You have to use your fingertips, not those long nails. See if you can find someone to prove those are real.”

Kiskililia took the phone and experimented with tapping. Bob moved on from kittens to ferrets.

“Do you mean this person?” she asked, handing the phone back.

“How did you do that?” he asked taking his phone back.

“Minor sorcery. Even if someone might notice the use of magics, it would be too paltry for them to care. I used it often before I had to be rescued from the Shadowside by your master. None of my enemies ever cared.”

Bob had very little clue what she was talking about, but he got the gist.

“Yeah, we just send these to him—her, and then we can auction these off for a lt of money. Uh, who are you again?”

The more powerful the less they were interested in giving introductions.

She stood up, waving one arm and holding the other close to her chest. “I am the sorceress who splled the doom for Atlantis. I am the fear of many civilizations past. I am the mother of all Monsters. I am the force that makes those of nightmares bow in my presence.”

“Yeah...you're going to need some ID. And a real name.”

“What is ID?” she asked, forgetting her atempt at intimidation.

“This,” Bob said, taking his wallet out of his bag and pulling out his ID. Evenryone called it a purse and made fun of it. “You're also going to need one of these.” He pulled his passport out and handed both of them to her. He hoped he'd get them back. Being forced to be subject to the DMV and the Post Office'd rules wand waits? That would be demonic.

“This is not your age. It is incorrect,” she said, reading the two side by side.

“True, but immortality confuses mortals. I think they can only fit so many numbers there too. You just need to tell people what age you look like and keep it consistent when you--”

She turned her hands to cover the main information on both items. From her hands, a disgusting green and blak auroa began to form, flowing around the ID and passport and griwng in size. The aura burst like a bubble and she dropped the items in his lap again, having duplicated both.

Bob picked them and discovere she had created one each for herself. “Bat Zuge?” he asked, reading off the name.

“It is one of my many names,” she said proudly. “I am tired of being mistake for your master's daughter and I do not want to risk my learning of these.”

“I think you should be more worried about someone finding out you have a fake ID and passport,” Bob said, handing them to her. “You need to get real ones. Nice attention to detail, though.”

“They are as real as yours. This is magic even novices learn to tune out spells of adding truth o record keeping.”

“I'm tempted to ask a favor next time one of mine expires,” Bob said. “Alright, it looks like we just fill out a form and send these off and we'll get them back with certificates in a few weeks. After that, we'll see if anyone is interested in buying them and you can travel wherever you want legally.”

And so, it came to pass that Bob became very, very rich. No one made fun of his bag or called it a purse anymore.

He did, however, forget his kindle after deciding to join her on her journey.

 

* * *

(Suicide)

(I know)

(Root of the problems)

(I don't care)

(Protect Max)

(Communication)

(Slowly confront everyone)

“Yes? Oh, right,” Michael said, answering the knock at the door.

It was Linda, one minute late for their mandatory meetings. They had both agreed it would be easier and more comfortable for Michael if the meetings were held at his new apartment.

She was ushered inside quickly and the door was closed immediately and locked.

“Michael, if you're embarrassed about having to explain about me, you don't have to call me your therapist. You can refer to me as your doctor, medical assistant, coach; It wouldn't be wrong to say I'm a consultant about working At Horizon Institute. I've even been called a new-age spiritualist. You don't have to be—“

Linda forced herself not to wince upon seeing how much 'comfortable' had been stretched. The apartment had only come semi-furnished and Michael had only moved in two days ago. During bright, sunny, barely foggy May.

Fancy christmas gift-wrap had been taped over the windows. There was a pile of magazines on the floor; she had interrupted while Michael was reading through them. The only thing else on the floor was a pillow with a rainbow on it and he number '86 for her to sit on. There was a plate of cookies in front of it.

“Please tell me you at least have a bed,” Linda said, getting to work by pulling out a tripod from her briefcase.

“I have some blankets.” He figured it was best not to mention it said 'DOG' and that he only used it as a pillow.

“How long has it been since you had a real bed? Max told her everything he knew about Michael's accomodations, from whre he slept in Horiszon's old building, to sleeping in a closet or in an empty room for patients at a free clinic he ran, to a refugee camp, to abandom buildings and when he was lucky hanging out with the homeless who couldnt' find shelters. She had read about reports where he'd stayed in sewers or had been locked in basements or cages. “Other than the hotel?”

“Define 'real'” Michael said, sitting down.

 

“Go right ahead. I'll be fine.”

Michael sat on the floor and shoved the open magazine away. Linda sat on the pillow and set up a small camera on top of a short tripod. “I'll be recording our sessions, but they'll be confidential.”

“Then why?”

“In case I or any other therapist needs to look back on these.” she sexplained. “It's just like recording medical appointments. They aren't videos to go showing to many others or to be looked at often.” She was finished in a matter of seconds. She had done this before, and quite often. If she posed any danger of giving information to high bidders or using them for her own ulterior motives, someone would have found out by now. “Shall we start?”

“”You might as well,” Michael said, looking at the camera. It was watching him. He didn't know if he cared for that.

“First of all, how are you feeling Michael?” she asked.

“I'm not hungry if tha'ts what you mean,” he said seriously.

“I meant how are you feeling in general. A lot has happened and changed. What do you think abot all of them?”

“Underwhelmed” he said after a moment's thought. “I haven't gone to work yet and this place is boring. There's not really anything to do even if I left. Max wil be worried if I do.”

Linda sighed. “What do you really think about Max?”

“I don't understand. Did...did I do something wrong?”

“Michael, this isn't about blame, it's about your feelings. And Max's. He's worried about you. You spent a year in prison because he wanted you at Horizon Labs. He was the one you were crying about before you took off out a window yet you were perfectly calm when he fired you. You didn't protest once when he gave you a trial, a new home, an a new job, but you don't want to tell him why you were so distraught or what your diagnosis is. You didn't even want to meet him at first.”

“I just...Everything I have now is because of him. I want to pay him back for it. I don't want him to think I'm pathertic or I'm even more of a leech than everyone else thinks I am. Am I doing something wrong?” He spoke honestly and pleadingly. He never really knew what to do. He had never been able to ask for help beyond saving his life—and that was always risky, even with those he thought he could trust. Repaying debt and running away were all he knew beyond ad-libbing. If those were all wrong, did that mean he'd hurt Max? For that matter, who else had he hurt trying to help?

“Only if you only think of Max as someone you're indebted to,” Linda said. “But I don't think he is. You didn't have a panic attack because youthought you were dangerus in genreal, you did it because you thought you were dangerous to him specifically. But you still keep that a secret—Hector told me not to tell Max. You were convinced he hated you, yet you agreed to talk to me for his sake. He could have asked S.H.I.E.L.D. toput you to work while incarcerated, but he wanted you here. Are you afraid of him or just scared to lose him?”

“I've lost too many friends,” Michael answered. “I don't want him to leave, but...I'd rather he was a live and left me. I just don't know how to protect him.” He wasn't begging. He didn't want to beg. He knew it wasn't right to beg a doctor. It wouldn't do anything anyway.

“From you?” Linda sked.

“From anything. Me, my enemies, one good friend of mine has ALS. I don't know what to do for him.”

“Do you want an answer?” Lind asked. “If you're not ready, I can understand.” She was downplaying the situation and she knew it. Everythign was solved by running away and taking the blame and trying to fix someone else's mess by himself. Everythign except regret and loss could be solved that way. Those just turned into more fear and more desperation.

“Yes, please.” Now he was begging.

“I want you to write down exactly how you felt toward these people. Next, I want you to turn those into letters to send to them. I'll mail them, so communication goes through me; I'll even tell Max to talk to me if first if he feels the need to. You need the closure of telling them how you feel at least. Moreso, you need to understand a friendship is stronger when you express yourself completely, even in disagreement or feeling slighted. You need people Michael; people whom you can trust. You're never going to know if you can trust them if you hide everything important from them.”

“Max doesn't want that, does he?” It was all about Max because that was all he had left. He hadn't been exxagerating.

“He was prepared for you to never want to see him again for failing you when he first came to get you from the mental hospital. He needs this, Michael. So do you.”

“Is that what you've brought for me to do?”

“No, these are statements I need you to sign so I can send them to USCIS. They're so you can get a temporary green card for medical aid you can't get anywhere else. In three months, you should apply for a permanent one for work, and then you can even gain citizenship in the United States.”

“Do I have to?” he asked, his voice heavy with reluctance toward her offer.

“You don't have to sign if you don't want to or you don't feel it's right,” she apologized. “I thought you wanted legal status, though. Right now you're an illegal alien and the city is paying for --”

“I meant as a citizen,” Michael interrupted. “I honestly don't want to be a citizen here. I know I haven’t been there in ages and I probably will never go back, but I love my home country. I want to stay Greek.”

“Michael, I'm not a U.S. citizen myself. I'm applying for it in the spring. I don't have much of an accent, but I'm from Australia. Are most of your friends overseas? You didn't come to this country until after the accident, correct?”

“Correct,” he said. “I studied in Amsterdam and met most of my friends from here. Hans moved here for work. Jacob's parents were immigrants fleeing the from East Germany. Max's family were citizens for generations. In fact, my parents didn't like the fact that my college roommate was an American.” A light hint of a smile crept upwards as Michael spoke about his friend. “This country wasn't very popular in the 70's and my parents took a long time to grow out of it.”

“What about you? What are your views?”

“I think this country could use some work.”

“Have you gone back to work yet?” she asked, changing the subject.

“Not yet. Max wanted me to wait until he got back from New York. I think he returns tomorrow.”

“That explains a lot,” Linda mumbled.

“What does that mean?”

Linda winced, embarassed hse had forgotten about his acute hearing. “I'll talk to you about that next time. Where did these come from?” she asked, nodding at the plate of cookies.

“A neighbor. Miss Rosenburg. She gave me most of these magazines and paper to cover the windows.”

“That sounds kind of her. What did you tell her?”

“Not much. She was in the apartment complex that Jack was in when the Weast Coast Avengers came by, so she's not worried about me. She's more worried about Max or he current political situation. Espeically when her grandchildren visit.”

“What did you tell her?”

“I told her I'd help her with the children if she ever needed.”

“Have you cared for kids before?”

“Yes, while I was—never mind.” He looked at the camera as silence began to take over the conversation. Now he was sure he didn't like it watching him. “Are you done yet?”

“Michael, is this about your past?” Linda asked, a mix of polite coaxing and chiding him. “I'm not going to tell anyone else about what you tell me unless I think someone is in danger.”

“What if someone innocent died?”

“How innocent?” she asked, letting her doubt of the incident creep into her words.

“He was torturing a prostitute. It was an illegal business for that,” he said carefully, almost whispering.

“That has already ben excused by the New York Police Department. It's already on record that you won't be charged with anything, ever.”

“It turned out he used to watch over several children in his apartment complex,” Michael said, almost smiling. “They all seemed to enjoy it when I came to cheer them up while they were in the waiting room. I didn't even know why they were there at first.”

“Michael, someone who tortures another person—really tortures them—is not someone who shouldn't be around children. He shouldn't be around anyone.'

Michael grit his teeth in silence. He had metaphorically stepped in something bad and it was written all over his face. He wanted to smash the camera and threaten Linda—anything to avoid getting into trouble now—but he just watched her. Maybe she had a way out he could beg for.

“Michael, did you hurt someone?” Linda asked. She was worried. She was mostly worried she didn't know who to be worried about.

“Myself.” He didn't count, right?

“I committed suicide. I tried. Something went wrong and—it's complicated.”

“I read about that,” Linda said. “Was it entirely about that man?”

“Not...exactly,” Michael said. He was sure Linda wouldn't side with him at all in this. “It was about someone I rescued. She hated me for it. She said I had no right to kill him and choose who lies or who dies. She was right.”

“She was wrong, Michael,” Linda said firmly, as if squeezing his arm to force in to sit in place with her words. “You were acting in defense of another. I've seen footage of you fight. Unless you've blacked out, you don't attempt to kill unless you think it's nessecary.”

“I didn't have to,” he whispered.

“You didn't, but you stil saved her. It doens't sound like she'd last much longer without you,' Linda said. “I want you to focus on that, Michael. Think about what you can accomplish by helping, not leaving. Know you've been through a lot more than what I've read, but you've done a great deal of good for many people.”

“Do I have to?” he asked with biting honesty. “I--I'm grateful for what I have now, but...it's almost always been so much pressure. Just because of what happened, does it mean I have to always fight something?”

“You're already a hero to thousands thanks to your medical acheivements, Michael. That's far more altruism than even some people in costumes even think about. You're a compasionate person, Michael. There's no fault in enjoying being compassionate if that''s something you find pride in after fighitng or feel hurt about when you don't have it. You can still be compassionate about your friends without hiding things from them, Michael.”

“I can't protect them without fighitng, though. And....I'm not good at it, either. I'm just lucky sometimes.”

"Michael, protection isn't just physical fighitng. Protection is letting them know aout problems, even little ones, while letting them kno whow much you care. The need to know these things. If they don't want to listen to you, then they're prepared to defend themselves. Real friends know the value of trusting each other, especially when it comes to each others vulnerabilities. I want you to focus on that kind of strength and protection. Especially with Max.”

 

 


End file.
